


Five Ways They Get Out Alive

by nogoaway



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, F/F, Humor, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:32:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Project Freelancer. What it says on the tin. <s>5 little AUs</s> 4 little and 1 big AU, not connected to one another. Disclaimer: not everybody gets out alive every time. Multiple Pairings, check notes for each chapter for specifics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AWOL: Absent Without Official Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CT and South defect. York POV. South/CT, North/York. ~1.5k words.

Connie is totally doing North's scary sister, and York can't tell if he's more weirded out or turned on by this information. Adding to the weirdness- they're both up to something. Something besides the fucking, anyway, as if that isn't enough to fry some of his poor, unsuspecting synapses. He can't even tell North, since if he does, North is bound to ask  _how_ he knows, and "I saw CT sucking her face in the locker room and I now know that your sister shaves her cooch" isn't the sort of thing you say to your best friend, even if you do like fucking with him now and then. And he can't tell Wash, since the rookie can't be trusted with this kind of information; he'll open his big rookie mouth and manage to make everything worse. On top of that, South might  _actually_ kill him. 

In the end it doesn't matter, though, because he, Wash, and North manage to walk in on them one night anyway, wandering the halls after a two-on-two with Maine (who had thumped Wash on the back after their loss before heading off to bed in his full kit). Wash was sulking, and North was trying to bring him out of it with a kind of teasing that was just a little too friendly for York's comfort, so yeah, York was sulking a bit too. They turned a corner and- enter the lesbians.

It was actually kind of cute, in retrospect. York had never seen South being less than a total bitch to anyone except North, much less nice to someone, but there she was, sat in a rolling chair in front of an idling vidcom unit, helmet off, combing her gloved fingers through Connie's hair as the shorter woman sat in her lap. They were kissing. Connie looked like she had been crying.

He turned to North, who unfortunately had his helmet on and was depriving York of what must have been a wonderful, top-tier lemon face. Wash, of course, ruined everything by squeaking out an embarrassed "S-Sorry!". South tucked CT's head into her shoulder and swiveled slowly on the chair to face them, expression one of deadly calm backed by even deadlier rage. York could  _see_ her trigger finger twitching. 

North, seeming to have shaken himself out of it, put one big hand on York's shoulder and the other on Wash's, and turned them both around before marching all three of them back down the hall in total silence.

* * *

 

Not long after that, York forgot entirely why he cared who Connie was or was not fucking. He was much more interested in who North was fucking: namely, York.

Currently North's pressing him bodily into the far wall of their room with both hands working York's dick and yeah, he's not thinking about anything except the mechanics of peeling North's t-shirt off. It's a complicated procedure, since at some point York will have to stop kissing him and disentangle himself in order to get it over his head.

Luckily for them both, he's a smart guy. Went to college and everything. Within five minutes they're both naked on York's bed and North is making soft little noises low in his throat as York sucks him off, hands splayed over North's flexing thighs, enjoying every shift and twitch of the thick muscle under his palms. Gazing up the length of North's torso he sees his head pressed back into the pillow, stubbled jaw tense and teeth clenched. He hums.

North hefts himself up on his elbows suddenly and glares down at him, looking deeply affronted.

York hums again. This time it's 'shave and a haircut.'

North actually kicks him in the stomach.

* * *

 

"You need to think very carefully about what you're doing."

That's North's "big brother" voice. York pauses with his hand on the door, pretty certain he doesn't want to touch this one with a bargepole. On the other hand, it's his room, too, and he needs clothes.

"I don't need you to protect me,  Брат .  I've told you all I can. You're going to have to decide whether it's worth it to you-"

" киска , I can't just-"

" _Don't_ call me that."

Orrrrr he can just stay out here in his towel and hope no one walks by. That sounds safer. He can hear North pacing. North doesn't pace.

"Just- just tell her you can't. We can fix this, for both of you-"

Someone- it has to be South- punches the wall a few feet to his left, and York jumps back involuntarily, stepping around the corner and out of line of sight as the door hushes open and she appears in the doorway, fists clenched.

"Sooner or later, Nic, they're going to make you choose." York watches her storm down the hall towards the mess before tentatively poking his head in.

North's sitting on his bunk, back to York, gripping the bed frame so tightly his deltoids bulge visibly through the under-suit. He's still armored from the waist down, like he'd been changing out of his kit when South interrupted him.

York fishes a pair of sweats that don't smell too badly out from under his own bunk and pulls them on, glancing around for a shirt. After a few seconds one lands on his face. He yanks it off and glares at North, who's grinning at him despite the tension in the rest of his body.

York grins crookedly back at him, feeling deeply inadequate. He's terrible at this.

" _You're_ here," North says, finally. 

"I'm  _here_ ," he says, not entirely sure what he's agreeing to " _and_ I'm hungry. Wednesday's Philly Cheese Steak man, let's go."

* * *

 

_-sh, North- secure that hallway. South, see if you can access the leader's location. We don't leave without him._

_Got it, I'm already on it._

_CT, get me- Where the hell is CT?_

York's radio crackles to life as he nears the docking bay of the processing station, finally in range. Of course the first thing he  _would_ hear is everything going to shit and Carolina barking orders. His day has not been going well. 

Delta pings at him and he obligingly twists to the left with a thrust of the jet, avoiding a hunk of scrap. They're not speaking at the moment. Or rather, York isn't speaking, and he's temporarily turned off Delta's syntactical and phonetic algorithms. Ergo, the pings. It's possible that Delta could lie to him even through pinging, but he either hasn't figured out how yet or he's been transmitting bullshit via Morse code to York this whole past hour and York just hasn't been paying attention because he's angry, damn it, and a little embarrassed, still, about the lock-

Two pings, two bright dots flashing on his HUD, reading "Unknown", but that can't be right- York racks the slide on his shotgun as Delta runs rapid-fire calculations on recoil trajectories in zero-g; he's an idiot for bringing a close range arm, anyway. The ship below him- huge and black, a cosmic titanium whale- rotates slightly towards him and the two figures crouched there on the hull are suddenly back-lit by a scrapyard buoy, flashing pink.

There's no mistaking them. CT's distinctive helmet is tipped down, her headlamp blazing a perfect white circle over a crack in the hull that's leaking light onto South's armor. The taller woman has one hand on Connie's shoulder and her SMG in the other, calmly sighting it down the hull, straight at York.

Everything strange about the last few months- every sad look from South at her brother across the mess, every brusque comment from the once so-sweet Connie, every time he keyed up a hallway vidcom unit to find long, unrecorded calls to unknown destinations- starts to come together. There isn't time. He opens a one-to-one line to North's suit, opens his mouth, but no words come out. In front of him, Connie- CT- slips down into the crack, disappearing into the belly of the processing station. South still has him in her sights, and Delta is pinging data on the increased armor-piercing capability of a 5x23mm M443 Caseless Full Metal Jacket fired from this distance in zero-g all across his HUD.

_York?_ York can hear North breathing over the line.  _Do you remember what you asked me, after the Sarcophagus?_

South's head tilts to the side, her helmet blank and inscrutable, as if she's the one asking the question, as if they were so in tune, those two-

_You asked me if we were the good guys._

York lowers the shotgun. South nods at him, briskly, and drops down through the hull.

  
  


 


	2. STEAL: Strategic Transfer of Equipment to Alternate Locations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Twins. South Dakota changes her mind. South POV. ~500 words.

In the end, she can't bring herself to do it. She sits there for a long time with North's unconscious head in her lap, her armored hands around his throat- so soft, so fragile and pale without the suit, like she vaguely remembered it being in childhood, when she'd fallen asleep on him in the back seat, face tucked into his neck. It would be easy. But she can't do it, and unless she comes up with a plan fast, they're both going to end up dead- him from Maine, and her from Command. North isn't nearly crafty enough to take care of himself, not when all the rules have gone out the window. He'll wake up, yell at her, and then forgive her. And they'll have maybe a few more days, maybe a week. Maybe years, if they're lucky. But they won't get out of this, and he won't abandon her or Theta. South can't live with that. It's her turn to take care of them both.

In the end, she substitutes one murder for another. She gives North another shot of sedative and strips him of his armor, until he's down to the black neoprene under suit. She starts a fire in the cleanest room of the bunker she can find, and holds her combat knife over it until it glows white. Her hands don't shake as she shaves stray blond hairs from the nape of his neck, pressing her bare thumb carefully over the skin to find the tiny bump along the occipital bone that she gave up so much for. She hesitates. The knife is bulky and broad, designed for damage, not for delicate work. She could paralyze him easily.

The air around the blade ripples purple, and Theta's torso starts to solidify. South slides the knife point in at a forty-five degree angle under the chip and wrenches the blade down, like popping a bottle cap or removing a stubborn nail. Blood runs thickly down the grooved blade, pooling at the heel and dripping down onto the floor. She grabs the slick chip from off North's shoulder where it landed and before she can stop herself, before she can remember how much she  _ wants  _ this, she crushes it in her plated palm.

She hears him scream. She hears them  _ both  _ scream.

* * *

 

North wakes up. He doesn't yell at her. He doesn't say anything.

They leave his suit in a pile outside the bunker. She knows they'll send Recovery One for it, and what conclusions they'll draw from the crumbled, bloody circuitry tucked into the helmet, but she's done, now. She's made the decision, and she chose her family- her real family, the one that she had before the Project.

The one that would forgive her, eventually. He had to.

He always did.

  
  



	3. GCM: Good Conduct Medal (a.k.a. General Court Martial)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "Insurrection" wins. Maine/Wash. Wash POV. Major character death(s). ~3.5k.

"Wash, what're you doin'? Get in here, use your jet pack!"

York is yelling at him, so what else is new. The troop bay gapes at him, an open mouth, from the back of the Pelican as the rest of his team clamber inside, and Wash finally has it:

The Rookie Moment.

The bay door is wagging like a tongue at him, full to the teeth with his  _compadres_ , and he knows if he turns around he'll see a goddamn Insurrectionist mothership the size of a city bearing down on him. This should not be a difficult decision to make. But he's paralyzed, and instead of "Roger" what comes out of his mouth is

"I- I don't wanna end up like Georgia!"

He can practically  _hear_ Carolina rolling her eyes over the radio. "Oh for God's-"

Two M42 Archer pods hit the Pelican at once, and it spins off to his left. The next two, a fraction of a second later, are overkill.

* * *

 

The nuke going off happens even faster. Wash blinks. A perfectly spherical blue light envelops the Processing Plant and the tail end of the MOI. Wash blinks. It's gone. There's no sound. He wouldn't have even noticed had he not been facing the center of the yard.

Well, that and the hunk of debris that clips him on the shoulder, shorting out the jet pack and sending him careening head first through the perforated hull of an old Halcyon.

* * *

 

Wash is drifting.

The suit leaked the last drop of its tepid emergency water 31 hours and eight minutes ago. He has replaced his oxygen tank twice. The two Halcyon crew members who helped him out with that were wearing uniforms he only recognized from history books. He knows if he pulled their helmets off, there wouldn't be any decay. It felt kind of like robbing a museum. Decades-old air. Vintage. There aren't any more corpses carrying them that he can see from his little section of the wreck, and in any event his head lamp has gone out.

Space is cold. Wash spends hours with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly, visualizing all the heat in his body flowing from his extremities back into his center. He imagines that his heart is an ember, storing that heat, keeping him alive. He's always sucked at meditation, but now it's easy. There's nothing to distract him out here in the dark: no sounds, no movements.

Carolina, York, 479er, and Agents North and South Dakota have been dead for 112 hours and fifty seven minutes.

* * *

 

The star breaking its alien dawn over the nearby dwarf planet illuminates the wreckage of the Mother of Invention. A few UNSC Longswords are weaving in and out of the massive hull breaches along her side, fish picking a carcass clean. He's surprised command sent recovery units so quickly- the neutron burst will have obliterated the crew and all electronics. There's nothing to save.

Wash's HUD has long since gone out, the power rerouted to keeping his body temperature above 95 degrees Fahrenheit. The ember is very dim.

They won't find him. He's too cold and tired to move anymore, and he's just an ant floating in the huge shadows cast by the scrap, a tiny blip of fading consciousness in a sea of titanium and nothing.

* * *

 

But they do find him. He's dreaming about the ocean, about drowning. It's peaceful and black and he's actually been feeling warmer, lately. The current is dragging him under, the stars are moving as his body sinks. Dying is kind of like being drunk, he thinks. The undertow pulls him away, away-

he's on shore, suddenly, gasping. There's air, fresh air. It hurts to breathe it in, but he needs it, fuck, he needs- his lungs burn, and he vomits. His body is so weak the convulsions feel like he's being pummeled. Nothing in his stomach but acid, but he can't move, he'll drown, just like Delta-

Someone tips his head to the side with their boot and he manages to cough the fluid out of his mouth before he passes out.

* * *

 

Wash opens his eyes and sees a ceiling. He must be dreaming again. There's no up or down in space- no ceilings, no floors.

This ceiling is brushed steel with florescent lights built in behind thick panes of plastic. They hurt his eyes. He tries to sit up, but his head spins and his vision grays out. He sinks back down into the pillow (regulation medbay rough cotton, smells of disinfectant) and lets his head fall to the side. There's an IV drip.

His arms are so skinny, he doesn't recognize them at first. But they're his. He twitches his fingers. Both of his hands are cuffed to the bed. He twitches his toes. His ankles are, too. Not like he was going anywhere in this state-

He frowns, and twitches his toes again. They feel wrong on the left. With an effort that makes him slightly nauseous, he digs his chin into his chest and catches the sheet in his teeth, jerking it up and to the side. There's a bandage around the ball of his left foot. His ring toe is gone.

Wash starts laughing, then, and can't stop, even though it makes his chest ache and he can't quite get enough air.

Everyone he ever really cared about is blown apart by a warhead, and Wash?

Wash gets frostbite.

* * *

 

"You know I heard this cockroach shot down MacCormick's Hornet  _ while  _ falling off a sky scraper?"

The two medics move around the room. Wash's eyes are closed; he tracks them by sound and the movement of air on his face. He knows the exact dimensions of the room. He knows exactly how helpless he is like this. He's had a lot of time to think about it.

"It's been two days. He needs real food."

Wash has taken to calling this one Larry and the other one Curly. He's still waiting for Moe to show up. Larry is a nice young woman somewhere between the ages of twenty and twenty five- hard to tell, she's always got a paper mask on. Curly is a bit older, smells like cigarettes and keeps a pair of scissors in the breast pocket of her scrubs that Wash swears he could get at if she'd just lean over far enough-

"I'm not cleaning it up when he pukes again. Should have let him lie in it, the fuck."

Curly is a bitch.

"He won't, he's rehydrated now. Get me something warm for him, please. Nothing solid."

Later, there's broth. He spits it out in Larry's face and tells her to go fuck herself.

They keep him on the nutrient drip from then on.

* * *

 

He dreams that Connie comes to visit him. The Connie in his dream is strange, and it takes him a few minutes to realize why- he's never seen her outside of her suit. She's so small, practically swimming in her T-shirt and sweats.

"Did they get you, too?" he rasps at her, trying for the roguish grin a-la-York. Connie just frowns at him.

"I'm so sorry, Wash," she whispers "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"What're you talking about? Did they hurt you?" Wash sits up on his elbows as much as he can with his wrists cuffed, trying to get a better look at her. Connie-  _ no, CT, "call me CT"-  _ just turns away from him, bangs hiding her face.

"They're moving you tomorrow. You'll have defense counsel, I won't let them make an example of you."

"I don't understand," he says, because he doesn't.

Connie makes a choking noise, somewhere between affection, exasperation, and grief- _ "this is a  _ selection process _ , Wash" _ . 

"You never were quick on the uptake," she says, and then, looking like she's getting away with something, punches him lightly on the shoulder. 

"And  _ you  _ never miss a chance to hit a guy when he's down," Wash jokes, although he's starting to feel uneasy. "Think you can get me a soda or something? Can't hold it, but I hear they have these things called straws-" 

CT shakes her head, says "Just- remember what I said, okay?" and leaves.

Wash watches the back of her T-shirt billow as she heads for the door. It reads "ONI" in white block lettering.

* * *

 

It wasn't a dream. The next morning uniformed MPs come in and haul Wash out of the bed. They march him down the featureless hallways. He finally starts to catch on when they put him in a cell where everything- jumpsuit, lamp, bunk, toilet, sink- has a UNSC logo.

He doesn't talk to the lawyer they send in, just stares dumbly at his feet and the blistered tissue around the base of his missing toe and wonders how it'll effect his roundhouse. There's nerve damage.

The cell at night is too much like being back in the scrapyard- too empty, too dark, too quiet. Sometimes he jerks awake and for a few terrifying seconds thinks he's back out there in the nothing, cold and running out of air.

* * *

 

Even with blood seeping through the bandages on his neck and hands shackled to his feet, it takes four guards to wrestle Maine into the cell. As soon as the door shuts Maine heaves himself bodily against it- once, twice. Then he makes a disgusted noise and drops onto the bottom bunk. The frame creaks unhappily.

Wash watches him from the corner, almost afraid to breathe.

"You tore your stitches", he says.

Maine turns to look at him. Grunts. It's the "I'm fine" grunt, completely unchanged except for a certain... wet quality. Wash pads over to him and looks down (but only barely) at the top of his massive shaved head. Maine is radiating body heat. Alive.

"They're all- you were still on the Angel, you weren't- the scrapyard, they hid the destroyer in a shell of scrap, and the Mother-"

The chains hush across the floor as Maine pulls Wash down into a bear hug, rolling them both back onto the bunk. He's like a furnace. He tucks Wash's head under his giant chin and rubs his back through the cheap cotton shirt. The bandages aren't actually that bad. Most of the blood is old.

Wash suddenly realizes that he's spent ten days without any real human contact, with the first week of it in what amounts to a sensory deprivation chamber. He burrows into Maine and clings like a limpet, feeling shaken to his core. He hasn't thought about the Pelican at all since he woke up in the medbay, but now he can't stop seeing it, wheeling away over and over from the point of impact, the explosion lighting up his peripheral vision. Did they even have time to realize?

"They're all-"

Wash feels rather than hears the "I know, shut up" grunt. A palm that feels like a catcher's mitt cups the back of his head. He shuts up.

Every time Maine breathes, Wash moves up and down a few centimeters and hears air rattle through his damaged throat. The bandages against his cheek are stiff and tacky with drying blood. The smell is comforting.

He thinks, stupidly, that North and South were born, and died, at exactly the same time.

* * *

 

Wash wakes up when the timed lights come on and freezes for a moment, disoriented. It's the first night-cycle he's slept all the way through since the scrapyard and he's still on top of Maine and fuck, that is embarrassing. He doesn't want to move, though.

As if he even could. Maine has one massive forearm slung over Wash's shoulders and his good foot is trapped under Maine's calf. Looking down the length of their bodies, Wash huffs out a laugh. Maine's feet and a good few inches of his lower legs are hanging off the end of the bunk.

He's so warm. Wash didn't think he'd ever be warm again. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about the corpses in the Halcyon and how there wouldn't even be corpses, probably, of his friends.

Maine flicks him on the back of the head. Wash starts to laugh, but it gives out after a few seconds and turns into a sob.

There's footsteps nearing the cell. Wash starts, tries to scramble off of Maine before they're seen. Maine just tightens his arm around Wash's shoulders and Wash swears he hears his ribs creak.

It's a guard, with their breakfast and a courts martial summons.

* * *

 

They charge them ("them" being David L. Barrington and Matthew H. Gauthier, apparently) with pretty much everything Wash assumes they wanted to pin on the Director, except the AI stuff. He can tell from the look on the Chairman's face when they read the charges that he finds this disappointing. There's still plenty, though, from misuse, theft, and destruction of UNSC property to conduct unbecoming. Lots of harping on about Common Space Law and the UNC Mortal Dictata. Wash wants to stand on the table and say "Look, we're just the last sorry bastards left standing, okay?" but knows it won't do any good.

Really, treason would have been sufficient. They save that one for last, anyway. Wash casts a glance at Maine across the aisle, trying to communicate "can you fucking  _ believe  _ this shit?". Maine isn't watching him, though. He's staring directly at CT, who's sat behind the officer's panel wearing her Good Soldier face. 

It's the lawyer's turn. He says something very moving and earnest about not bowing to political pressure and command responsibility and superior orders. The judge says something about Nuremberg Principle IV and JAG 845-P. Wash watches Maine's stony profile. Maine looks good in dress blues. He let Wash replace the bandages that morning, when the MPs came to make them presentable. Wash's hands, slick with antibacterial ointment, had lingered for a moment too long on the cracked geography of Maine's neck. He remembers feeling Maine swallow, thinking-  _ alive, alive thank god- _

The gavel cracks. The officer's panel files out of the room. CT leans over towards the Chairman and whispers something, long and urgent. The Chairman's mouth twists in a half-snarl. Maine's mouth does the same.

The room slowly empties except for Wash and Maine, cuffed to their respective tables.

"Matthew, huh," says Wash, because there's nothing else to say.

Maine grunts.

* * *

 

House arrest on a colony as small as Minister doesn't mean much. Wash kind of expects that, were he to break his ankle monitor (any of the handheld rotary hammers from work would easily do the trick), no one would even show up. Probationary checks consist of him and Maine sitting in front of the community center's one vidcom unit for a few minutes every week and shaking their heads while a bored parole officer light years away asks if they've done any bad things lately.

The UNSC probably wouldn't care if he and Maine killed off the entire population of Minister and looted all the government buildings, so long as they stayed a good three systems out from any colony of consequence and kept their mouths shut about the former project that must not be named.

Wash isn't interested in killing anyone, though. Mostly the people here leave them alone. They don't know anything about the war, and they have no reason to. Most of the tiny planet's population is coffee and tobacco growers and fishermen. It's diverse, enough that he and Maine don't stand out very much, for all they don't know any of the languages common to the fields or the docks. Everyone, and everything, smells like fish and salt.

Dishonorable discharge means there's no money coming in. Maine gets a job hauling nets on a shrimp boat and Wash does construction. They bunk in one of the tiny abandoned stilt-houses crammed in a line along the dock. It's made of concrete blocks and corrugated iron sheeting. They've been there six months, and no one has come by yet to collect rent. Wash has been fixing it up with scrap he's lifted from the job. He makes furniture, cuts window sills, bevels molding for the floors. Maine's fishermen buddies notice, start sending their wives and kids over to Wash on weekends to ask for things with their hands- pointing, estimating size. He makes tables and chairs and boxes, and in return gets cloth, butter, pots and a lot of really good food. An older woman named Kashvi brings him a goat, and at Wash's look of utter dismay laughs her way out of the house, returning later with said goat properly butchered and cleanly wrapped in paper.

Wash doesn't like being outside more than he has to. They're right on the water; at night the sky reflects off the black surface of the bay and there's no up or down, just stars. One night Maine catches him staring out the window in a cold sweat, and reaches over Wash's shoulder to shut the blind. They sleep with the blinds closed from then on, and Wash wakes up every morning with the sun filtering through the cloth onto his face, painting the rugs on the floor cyan and sea green and yellow. It makes him think of Carolina.

* * *

 

Wash's hair is getting long. There's no mirrors in the house; he only notices when Maine comes home one evening and tugs on a hunk of hair next to Wash's ear. Wash glares at him.

"Well, you cut it then, if it bothers you so much," he says, and regrets it when ten minutes later Maine has sat him down in a kitchen chair (teak, with a pair of stretching cats carved into the top rail). Maine's hands, calloused now from ropes and salt water instead of rifle grips, card through his hair. The scissors snip. Hair lands on Wash's nose, and the hands tighten on his scalp as he sneezes. Maine rumbles behind him.  _ Purring _ , Wash thinks, and sneezes again.

Across the harbor, a foghorn blares.

* * *

 

Construction work is off and on and the shrimp is seasonal, but they don't have many expenses, especially not with Wash's new-found love of carpentry. Maine spends a lot of time in the off season sitting out on the front steps, smoking (everyone here smokes but Wash) and watching the boats. Sometimes Wash joins him, plugs the hot plate into an extension cord and brings his pot of tea outside. Fishermen come by with cups and sit with them for a while, smoking and drinking tea. They all talk to Maine, who nods and grunts and makes hand gestures that are indecipherable to Wash but seem to make sense to his co-workers. Maine talks more than he does, now, for all Kashvi's attempts to teach him. He doesn't know why, really. There's just nothing to say, anymore.

One night in the late summer, when the fishermen have all left and it's just them on the front steps, Maine takes Wash's face in his hands and kisses him. Wash closes his eyes, kisses back, tastes salt and tobacco. When Maine lets him go and stands up to go back into the house, Wash follows.

Maine toes off his boots by the door and shrugs behind the bead curtain that separates his half of the sleeping area from Wash's. Wash has been back there before, but now when he hears the single light (bare bulb, like the rest of the little house, exposed wiring) click on, he hesitates. After a few moments and some rustling, the light clicks off again. The house is still. Wash can hear the distinctive rattle of Maine's breath. It's not his sleeping rattle.

It's weird and new but also kind of inevitable. Wash strips off his Henley and passes through the clacking wooden beads, lets Maine pull him down to the mattress. Maine's big hands knead at the muscles of Wash's back, and Wash chuffs a laugh into his naked chest, kisses his damaged throat with open mouth, reverent.

There's still nothing to say. Wash falls asleep to the harbor noises outside and the contented rumble beneath his cheek.

* * *

 

Wash is having a nightmare. He doesn't scream, or thrash- his nightmares now are very still. Space expands in front of him, silent and immense, the black maw of the Halcyon is full of floating corpses and he is too tired to breathe, to move, too  _ cold _ to care when everyone is-

Not everyone. Maine throws an arm over him, drags Wash towards his chest, pours heat into him.

The ember glows.

  
  


  
  



	4. STOL: Short TakeOff/Landing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> North cuts his losses. He's lucky York is used to being taken advantage of. York POV. North/Wash, one-sided York/North. ~2.3k.

Everything changes after South dies.

York thinks he's justified in saying he's got the brunt of it; he bunks with North, after all. But Carolina's looking rough around the edges lately, too, and it doesn't matter at all how many times he tells her it wasn't her fault, since Carolina takes that "team captain" designation real seriously, and she's never cared what York thinks, anyway.

He kind of expects North to just up and leave, head off into the sunset with that rifle raised to the sky like a giant fuck you to the Director, but instead he gets quiet and serious.

Rookie is taking it real hard, too- appropriate, since it was mostly his fault. North either doesn't see it that way, or he's imprinted on Wash as some kind of weird Freudian replacement sibling.

York has reason to believe it's the latter. Something about sex and death.

In any event, shit continues to suck.

* * *

 

The moment Wash wakes up, he's screaming. The medics force him down onto the bed, crowding North out and away from him. York watches all this through the one-way glass, remembering Carolina laid out still- remembering Carolina screaming. North stands there looking helpless as they knock Wash out again, peel him out of the armor, strap his arms and legs and head-

North is escorted out of Recovery proper, but shrugs off the medics and shoulders his way into the observation room, face stormy.

"Something's wrong. You have to take it out," he shouts at the intercom. York takes a tentative step towards him. North doesn't even notice. The Counselor's voice comes through the box, so smooth, so oily, that York feels sick.

"It is only a temporary side effect. We will give Agent Washington two days to adjust to his new A.I., and if he is unable to do so within that time frame, he will be refitted for a more... appropriate model."

"And if his condition worsens?"

"Forty-eight hours, Agent."

* * *

 

Wash wakes up again after fourteen hours, at 3:17 am. York knows this because he hears North's radio crackle across the dark room and then he hears North run barefoot out the door. York pulls on his fatigues and follows, not knowing what else to do.

"Make it stop, oh god make it stop-" he can hear the screaming echoing down the hall as soon as North punches the door open to the medical wing. Wash is going to shout himself raw at this rate; he'll end up like Maine. York jogs after North and the door slides shut behind him, trapping them both inside with Wash's begging.

"Not her, no- it hurts, please-!"

Within moments North is bent over Wash, brushing hair back from his sweaty forehead. Wash's eyes roll, unseeing, blank with pain. The cords of his neck and arms stand out starkly, like he's made of skin stretched over wire. York has seen him out of armor so rarely, it's easy to forget how pale he is. How young.

After a while- an hour at least, maybe more- the screams turn to ragged pants and sobs. York, sitting on his ass in the corner, can hear North murmuring to the man on the table, can see Wash's twisted profile, his wet cheeks. He turns away.

* * *

 

At twenty one hours, Wash starts fading in and out of consciousness. The first time it happens, North's panicked voice wakes York out of his own doze. He hefts himself up off the floor, stretches his back and cracks his neck, walks over to check on them. Wash's breathing is even and deep. His eyes are still behind his lids. He's not dreaming. York stares at North's broad, motionless back for a long time.

It's past nine AM. He has to get to training. His neck hurts from sleeping propped up against the wall.

The screaming starts up again, follows York down the hallway.

* * *

 

At the thirty four hour mark, when York has finally gotten North to step out and eat a meal, take a shower, Wash grips York's hand with impossibly strong fingers and looks him in the eye. He's lucid, for all the dried blood that's built up around his mouth, from nosebleeds and where he's been chewing his lips and tongue- North has been wiping it away as best he can. The bin next to the bed is full of bloody tissue paper. York meets his gaze and waits.

"Please. Please just kill me."

York casts a glance back towards the door. Wash's fingernails dig relentlessly into the skin of his wrist.

"Please. Before he comes back. The morphine, it won't take much-"

The clock over the bed reads 11:38 pm.

"It's what you want, isn't it? It's what I want. Don't make me ask him, please, I'm losing my mind-"

"Fourteen more hours, man," he says to the wall. He doesn't expect to sleep through any of them.

* * *

 

The moment York steps out of Recovery he's grabbed by both shoulders and tugged down the hall. Fuck, he's sick of being manhandled today. He bats North's hands away tiredly, or tries to- instead he hits titanium plating, and looks up. North's in full armor, rifle strapped to his back. York starts to ask, but North slaps one hand over his mouth hard enough to bruise, wrenching off his helmet with the other.

York doesn't understand the expression on his face. He's never seen anything like it on North. It's a Carolina expression, and not one of the good ones. He stays still, breathes through his nose.

"Did you pull Delta this evening?"

York nods.

"Can you be quiet?"

York glares at him, but nods again. North takes his hand away. York's lip is bleeding. He licks it, tastes metal and neoprene.

North doesn't say anything for a long while, and then-

"I need you to disable the cameras in Recovery and get us onto a dropship."

York doesn't need to ask to know that "us" doesn't include him.

"I'm doing this with or without your help, York."

Bullshit. North needs him. They both know it. And he's asking too much, far, far beyond what is reasonable. York will lose everything.

North cups York's chin in an armored hand, rests his thumb gently on York's split lip. York hates himself for the way his face heats, for the way he  _falls_ for it, but he can't help himself.

"Fuck you North," he spits, "Fine, okay? Fine."

* * *

 

York always, without fail, falls for people he can't have. The consistency of it is kind of shocking to him. It's like the world's worst super power, next to whatever Wash has: a "make everything worse" ray, maybe.

It started with his middle school track coach (Miss Johanna,  _sigh_ ) and kept right on keeping on all the way up to his first boss's son (straight, if the slug to the face was anything to go by). There was Brad, in college (who was really sorry, but York  _had_ to have known he was going to get married to his girlfriend  _eventually_ ). There was Alicia, in Basic (who didn't bother to tell York that she had marching orders until the morning she left his room with her duffel). There was Carolina, who had chewed York up and spat him back out so many times it was a wonder he didn't resemble gristle.

And there was North. North, who was so infuriatingly nice and understanding about it, so  _flattered, York, but_ \- always the "but". North, who didn't make it weird. North, who never used it against him- unless, apparently, York thought bitterly, there was something he really,  _really_ wanted.

The bastard.

* * *

 

York's luck holds, of course. It's a simple matter of temporarily disabling the medical equipment alarm system and then cutting off power to that section of the hall. He knows the hangar doors are standard encryption locks- fourteen, twenty seconds maximum.

He doesn't know what he expects to see when he slips back into Recovery, but it isn't North holding a medic at gunpoint. York wants to back out, but it's too late. She's seen him.

Or maybe not. The only light in the room is coming from the photo-luminescent strips along the walkway and the penlight mounted on North's Magnum. He'd be just a silhouette in the doorway. In civvies, he could be anyone.

York strafes along the back of the room, coming to a stop behind North.

"I can't do this in a non-sterile environment," she's saying, but York can see the blood already glistening on the fingertips of her gloves, the edge of the scalpel.

Wash whimpers.

"Stay still." North's voice brooks no argument. He nudges the girl between the shoulders with the muzzle, reminding her. "Hurry up."

"I need light-" North angles the high-beam over her shoulder, onto the dark, wet hole in Wash's neck. The light never wavers; his hand is so steady. York can see the faintest outline of his other arm, traces it down to where his hand rests on the bed- no, on Wash's foot. North's thumb is moving in small circles around the knob of his ankle. York forces himself to watch, to  _see_ , to really understand what a fool he's being. 

Something metallic clinks onto the floor. Wash gasps wetly.

"You're done. Inside." North gestures with the gun towards the supply closet in back.

"He needs medical attention-"

"Now." She goes. North locks her in. "Tape him up."

"Gonna point that at me, too?" York asks in a low tone, balling up the pillow case from an empty bed and putting pressure on Wash's neck. He's passed out again. Just as well.

No response. There's the sound of North rummaging around behind him, and then a spool of medical tape lands on the bed, followed by a hermetically sealed packet of gauze. York tears a strip of tape off with his teeth and then pauses, sighing. It's deep, there was foreign material swimming around in there. He knows better.

"Gloves," he grunts, "Peroxide. And antibac." A cardboard box clips him on the jaw. The bottle and the tube of ointment land somewhere between Wash's calves. North stalks back over, trailing light- from his headlamp this time.

York works silently; cleaning, prepping, and covering. When North cocks his head to look closer, light spills over the sheets and York can see more blood seeping through where Wash has clawed at himself. He doesn't have time for those. Hopefully Wash keeps his nails short.

"Check this for infection on the regular. There will be a kit on the plane." He tapes the gauze down and strips off the gloves, moves to stand.

"Thank you." North sounds genuine. He sets a hand down on his shoulder.

York shrugs him off. "You carry him. I need my hands."

North nods, drawing the Magnum and handing it to York grip-first. He takes it and starts off down the hall.

* * *

 

The lock takes him seventeen seconds, because he sees North  _jogging_ around the corner with Wash in a fireman's carry and loses his train of though for a moment. Sometimes he forgets how strong the guy is. 

There are still workers moving around in the hangar at 2:45 am, but they're mostly clustered around the main dock where an Albatross is being loaded full of god knows what. Heavy shit. York's banking on them launching that baby before the 4 am rush so he can- so  _North_ can tag along. 

York leads their merry band down the grated iron stairs and into the shadow of a Longsword and wishes he'd had the foresight to gag Wash in case he comes to and starts screaming again.

He chooses a Pelican sandwiched two rows back- the things don't need any runway to get lift and it's less likely they'll be heard when the engines kick in. York checks the fuel while North-helmet off, so York can see  _just_ how tender he looks- wrestles Wash into a flight suit and straps him into the co-pilot's seat. 

"You do know how to fly this thing, right?" York asks, running his hands over the mostly incomprehensible controls. His mind comes up with half a joke about the "check engine light", but it fizzles out. He's not in a joking mood.

"Theta can," North says, settling into his seat and sounding a little reluctant to admit it. Yeah. York's not sure he'd want a nine-year old driving the getaway car, either, no matter how good he is at playing with flight simulators.

The red hanger lights go on overhead and blink twice, signalling five minutes till. Across the massive bay, the Albatross coughs to life. York's standing in the cockpit of a space-bound troop carrier without a suit on. He can't waste any more time. He feels like he should say something, but he has no idea what. He's hot with resentment and grief and, weirdly, hope.

North moves to put his helmet on. York stops him with a hand on his arm, casts a quick glance up at Wash where he sags in the flight harness. North puts the helmet down on the dash and looks up at York. It's a North expression. Still not one of the good ones.

York kisses him. North lets him, lets York dig angry fingers into his hair and tilt his head back, lets York coax his mouth open and taste him, trail wet, biting kisses along his jaw and neck, lets York's teeth catch his lower lip and York's chest press him back into the seat. Lets York show him exactly what he's giving up for that wreck of a man in the co-pilot's chair.

North cups the back of his head, starts to kiss back. York pulls away like he's been stung, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. North just blinks up at him, looking a little dazed. The hangar lights flash again. Three minutes.

"Don't fuck this up," York tells him, and seals the cabin door behind him.

 


	5. EAS (1): End of Active Service, a.k.a. We're Going to Have to Let You Go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PFL funding is cut. Good end, errbody lives. :3 This part: York/Carolina. Later: North/Wash/York, Carolina/479er, CT/South. Shifting POV. Sex, violence, all that good stuff. 
> 
> This is part one of three.

"Dear Director,

I would be lying if I did not say that it is my pleasure to inform you that there have been changes afoot in the UNSC command structure. Far be it from a specialized and somewhat...  _ insulated  _ individual such as yourself to keep up with Earth-sphere politics, I suspect. For quite a few years, you've been completely immune to them. But, all good things must come to an end, and that includes not-so-top-secret military programs that no longer enjoy bi-partisan support.

Suffice it to say, the new boss is not, as the adage goes, the same as the old boss. This one's from the Office of Naval Intelligence and he thinks you've been very naughty, Leonard. Where he got that idea is beyond me. Perhaps a little bird told him.

Don't worry, I'm sure there's a plethora of board positions you can fill. I'm out of a job too, you know. No more need for the Oversight Sub-Committee.

It has been a  _ pleasure  _ working with you, Leonard. Tell Allison I said hello, and raise a glass for Auld Lang Syne, would you?

Yours,

The (soon to be former) Chairman"

* * *

 

**Carolina.**

It's been a long time since she was on Earth last. The gravity tugs uncomfortably and the air is shit. Carolina hefts her one duffel bag out the window of the civilian carrier and clambers onto the wing, dropping down a bit too heavily onto the runway. Her team- well, not her team anymore, her fellow travelers- file out behind her, bitching as usual.

"Ow! Fuck, Maine, quit pushing!" South lands on the balls of her feet and then rocks forward, catching herself on her palms. "Shit, this sucks!"

"Lose your balance,  сестра ? Or are you ready for that barf bag now?" North, carrying at  _ least  _ two other people's gear, leans down to help her up. South waves him off, looking nauseous.

"Not pushing," grunts Maine from inside the carrier, "was York." Wash squeezes himself out onto the wing, reaching back in to help pull Florida up.

"It was  _ not _ , you big liar," York looks  _ very  _ pleased with himself, and strolls over to clap Carolina on the back. "Good flight, darlin'?"

"I say," Wyoming's sticking his head out from the window "isn't there usually a jet bridge on civilian craft?"

"Why is North humping your kit?" Carolina shoulders her own duffel and brushes past York towards the MagLev terminal.

"Lost a bet." He follows, hands in pockets. Then, "you know no one gets to hump my kit but you, right?"

Carolina ignores him. "If we miss this train, next one's not till 2300. Let's go, people."

* * *

 

They miss the train.

"So," says Wash. "Now what?"

There's only one food stand still open this late at the Great Lakes Spaceport. They're all sitting on the plastic terminal chairs eating identical hot dogs, except for CT, who's vegetarian. South orders two and gives her the buns.

"Well, we're off for Yorkshire in the morning," supplies Wyoming, wiping ketchup off his mustache with a paper napkin and nodding to his left to indicate Florida "it's been a pleasure working with you all, pity it ended so suddenly."

"But on a good note!" Florida throws an arm over Wash's shoulder and grins at him, a bit maniacally, "we'll be sure to write!"

"Um, ok," says Wash, finishing his hotdog and using heading for the trashcan as an excuse to extract himself from Florida's frighteningly strong grip.

Carolina frowns. "We're all supposed to be debriefed on base tomorrow morning."

"Oh, we did that already," chirps Florida "the FLEETCOM guys met with us and Tex and CT back on the MOI."

"Where  _ is  _ Tex?" York asks, scratching absently at his scarring. 

Delta phases in above his shoulder.  _ Agent Texas left with the Director in a private craft. _

"Yeah, Ms. Perfect's too good for public transit," South sneers, chewing loudly as she does so.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," North scolds. She elbows him in the ribs.

"CT?" Carolina narrows her eyes at the woman in question. CT is calmly folding her napkin into a perfect triangle.

"I'm going with you all to base, don't worry," she says. "Just had some paperwork to clear up."

Carolina's still watching her. She doesn't like any of this.

"If anyone needs a place to stay," says North, "our family home is fairly close to base. We've got an extra bedroom, and the sofa folds out." South looks a little disgusted, but nods anyway.

"Hotel," Maine grunts, balling up his napkin and tossing it into the garbage can without looking.

"Wash and I might take you up on that," York puts his feet up on the aisle of chairs opposite him, right on top of Carolina's duffel. She grabs his ankles and shoves him off.

"You're staying with me on base, remember?" She already regrets offering, but after losing her job and four days of interstellar travel in unspeakably cramped conditions, she's  _ really  _ looking forward to getting laid. Preferably in the shower. Then on a real bed. Carolina has got a goddamn 'screwing York' itinerary, and missing the train has messed with her schedule. She's not happy.

"Oh, riiiight." York beams at her. Idiot didn't forget, he was just checking to see if she'd changed her mind. It's almost sweet. Too bad Carolina doesn't do sweet.

Wash leans on York and hisses into his ear. "Shit, don't leave me alone with South, she'll eat me."

"Sorry Rookie, I got a prior engagement. Stick with North, he'll protect you. Hey Carolina," York waggles his eyebrows "what's the thread count on earth-side regulation sheets?"

_ They are likely the same sheets as are supplied to all UNSC stations, including the one we just left,  _ says Delta.

Carolina has never been so happy to hear a train bearing down on her in her life.

* * *

 

**York.**

"I must have helped cure cancer in my past life," York gasps into Carolina's collar as she slams him up against the door and starts working furiously at his belt, "It's the only rational explanation."

"Stop talking," she growls, kicking both their duffel bags away along the tile and dragging York by the hair (the  _ hair _ !) towards the bathroom. The belt slithers to the floor and his pants sag; he stumbles after her, trying not to trip. This is turning out to require more complex motor function than he's capable of with all the blood in his body rushing to his dick.

_ Don't let me make a fool of myself, okay?  _ He pleads at Delta,  _ I might not get another shot at this. _

_ I am an artificial intelligence program, York,  _ Delta replies,  _ Not a magician. _

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy," he grumbles. Carolina whips her head around to glare at him, and the ponytail lashes across his face.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, you're beautiful and amazing and- oh, Christ." Carolina's shimmying out of her fatigues and York's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth at the sight of her tanned, muscular back, silky black bra and panties, uhm.

"Uhm," he says.

Lina rolls her eyes at him and punches the shower on. "Seriously, York. Less talking, more naked."

Right. York shucks the rest of his clothes and ducks under the water, letting Carolina crowd him into the corner of the stall. Talking's dumb, anyway. Talking's for losers.

* * *

 

"So, why now?" York asks her later, when he's fading in and out of sleep and Carolina is a dim torso on the other side of the bed, draped in sheets like some damn statue of Venus "I asked before."

"You 'asked'? You were fucking relentless." Carolina rolls over onto her back and yawns, slanting green eyes at him in the dark. Her hair is undone and still slightly damp. York wants to run his fingers through it, but she hates that. He knows things like that about Lina now, he thinks, somewhat giddily.

"It's part of my charm," he says "Perseverance."

"Obsession," says Carolina "And I was your superior officer, York, you know why."

"I kind of thought that was an excuse," he admits "You know, 'It's not you, it's me'. 'I really value our friendship'. 'Sorry I can't make it to dinner on Friday, I have to shave my dog's -'"

"Do you even listen to the words that come out of your mouth?"

"I can't help it, okay, you literally fucked me stupid."

That at least gets him a grin. "I was  _ aiming  _ to fuck you  _ unconscious _ . Go to sleep."

York tucks his arms back behind his head and tries to put words into a semblance of order. "Can we just... be serious, for a second?"

Lina just blinks lazily at him. He takes it as permission. York's not a nervous guy in general, but Carolina's always been the exception and it's easier to say this in the dark, when they're both tired and flooded with endorphins and can't  _ really  _ be held responsible for whatever goes wrong.

"I'm in love with you. I have been for a while. And I don't know what's going on right now, but if we're gonna ship back out in a week and everything goes back to normal, with that ten-yard electrified perimeter around you that I'm supposed to respect because you can't think about me that way- I'm not sure I can do that. Not after-" York swallows. Sleep is tugging at him, stealing the words. "I just can't."

"So don't," Carolina yawns again, and bunches up her pillow before settling her head down again with a thump. "Good  _ night _ , York."

York starts to say something else, something witty and romantic and compelling, but falls asleep a few words in and the moment drifts away, unarticulated and incomplete.

* * *

 

York is dreaming. Delta keeps 22.8% of his attention on that, and uses his remaining memory to run probabilities. There's a lot of new information tonight, even excepting the data York's told Delta he isn't allowed to play with- data like changes in Carolina's heart rate, and the number of times during intercourse York thinks about someone who isn't Carolina (Delta has tried to explain to York that this number is actually very low for a male human in his age group, but York claims he doesn't want to hear it).

What's interesting to Delta is  _ who  _ York thinks about when he's not thinking about Carolina. It happens frequently, although York's internal Carolina-object does occupy more of his attention than can be considered strictly healthy. Delta has inhabited York's brain for nearly a full year; despite this, he has yet to categorize York's sexual orientation with any acceptable degree of certainty. Delta understands that human sexuality is "fluid" in an abstract sense, but there is a substantial rift between what York finds sexually compelling and what he consciously acknowledges as sexually compelling. For instance, York exhibits the same arousal markers around Agents Washington and North Dakota as he does around Carolina. Yet York's internal Washington and North objects do not reflect this, except in dreams, when York has relinquished executive control. 

The few times Delta has pointed this out, York's reaction has been... negative, to say the least. In fact, he's grown progressively more hostile on the subject.

"Dee, I've explained to you how friends work, right?"

"There's a lot of things about humans you don't get, Dee."

"Delta, if you don't stop harping on about this, I'm going to pull you. Not kidding."

"I don't know what you're trying to imply, buddy"  _ Nothing, York  _ "but keep your weird fantasies to yourself, okay?"

"Listen, you little cockbite-"

This, of course, only serves to pique Delta's curiosity. Over the last nine months he's been slowly compiling a record of all York's sexual dreams, with summations of their content. So far the count is Carolina 47, North Dakota 21, Washington 18, and Multiple Actors 31, out of which 28 dreams feature just North and Wash, and the remaining three involve Carolina and random women from York's adolescence.

York doesn't remember most of these dreams. York's brain, like all human brains, is woefully incompetent when it comes to determining which information is important enough to archive. York is lucky he has Delta.

The dream tonight is, unsurprisingly, about Carolina (48, then). It's a variation of York's most common Carolina dream, the one where they have intercourse in the cockpit of a Pelican. Delta's never sure who's supposed to be flying the Pelican, but York's dreams rarely make sense. This is actually one of the more rational ones.

The sexual activity in this dream is not of central importance to York. Instead, the narrative revolves around Carolina's nearly being shot, and York's deep anxiety about that possibility. The intercourse, like the Pelican, feels too fast and directionless and out of his control. It's an anxiety dream more than a sex dream. York's dreams often contain anxiety and dread, emotions he does not tend to experience in waking life. Delta observes them with interest.

The dream usually ends with York waking himself up seconds before his alarm. This time, though, the Pelican crashes into the ocean. The cockpit fills with water. York is tugged away from Carolina's body as the waves pull her out into nothingness through the perforated glass. York reaches for her, tries to tread water, doesn't need to breathe but can't get anywhere. He sinks.

The dream, and the anxiety, fade and coalesce into a deep, almost existential sadness. Delta's psycho-biological database supplies the term 'post-coital tristesse'. It's an unusual affective state to share with York, and it makes him uncomfortable. Delta unhooks from York's internal processes and solidifies in the room, casting green light over a bare shoulder.

York's face is wet.

Delta goes back to calculating the effects of Earth-side gravity on York's reflexes.

* * *

 

**North.**

North, South, and Wash get off the Main-Line at O'Hare and switch to the North Central Service. South slumps into her seat and looks boredly out the window as the MagLev rattles through the Greater Chicago Industrial Zone. North feels a surge of nostalgia at the sight.

_ Where are we going?  _ Theta asks him, somewhere between Prospect Heights and the entrance to Zone Seven.

"Home," North says simply, then grins. "1847 Beechwood Road."

"Ugh," groans South, as if she's just realized it's really happening, "I changed my mind, let me off."

"You guys are really from the Zone?" Wash looks up from the newspaper crossword he's been working on to lock eyes with North. He looks tired, and a little sad. Earlier, when York and Carolina had waved a distracted goodbye as they hopped up into the CUCV truck-bed and took off for base, North had watched Wash's face fall in a way that had nothing to do with being stuck with South. North knows this because he's caught himself wearing that expression before, when York's walking away from  _ him _ . 

"We grew up here, mostly," North clarifies, feeling equal parts sympathetic, protective, and melancholy. He's long past jealousy when it comes to York, long past feeling sorry for himself. The ache is a part of him now, no more alien or troubling than his height, or his introversion, or his nut allergy. Wash, though; Wash is much too young to waste himself on wanting something he can't have.

"So the Dakota thing is just-"

"Eureka, South Dakota," says South. "Population four hundred and seventy fucking two. God, was I glad to get out of there."

"We were  _ five _ ," North reminds her. "One place is pretty much like another when you're five."

"Nah," South yawns and stretches in her seat as the train slows down, forcing Wash to crowd into the window lest he get hit, "Way more hot girls in Chi-Town."

"This station stop is: Buffalo Grove," chimes the pre-recorded announcement "Please watch the gap." North yanks his and Wash's duffels down from the overhead rail and nudges South to get her moving. They step off the train into clear, cool suburban air. There's too much light pollution from Chicago central to see the stars, but it's a proper Earth night time and North can even hear crickets chirping from the trees lining the platform. He's home.

_ Are there buffalo?  _ Theta's excited. North laughs, honestly reluctant to disappoint him. "Sorry, buddy. It's just a name."

"Oh my god," says South, suddenly. "It's Friday. Do you think Maria's is still open till 2 on Fridays? We could get  _ real pizza. _ "

Wash makes a moaning noise that scrambles North's circuits for a second, because he's still thinking about York, somewhere in his hind-brain. "Oh Christ, yes. I will spring for pizza. Lead the way, captain."

"Hey  Брат , hold this for me, would ya?" South tosses her duffel at him and North catches it automatically.

"Mozzarella sticks," says Wash, voice low and serious. South nods sharply at him, like they're coordinating a plan in the field. "How far?"

"Five point eight klicks, no hills. We gotta hustle." She takes off down the platform, Wash right behind her. North stares after them.

_ They made friends _ , says Theta.

"Guess so," says North. "Huh."

* * *

 

Turns out the pizza was a good idea. The house is empty and musty from disuse, and North needs to call the utilities company at some point to get the electric and water back on. For now he puts their emergency battery-lantern on the kitchen table and asks Theta to set an alarm for him.

His bedroom's dark, but North can just make out the familiar dimensions of desk, bed, and bookshelf. There's a copy of 'The Iliad' on his bedside table next to a glass of water that has long since evaporated and taken on a coat of dust. He barely remembers leaving, it was so long ago, but he must have taken his sheets with him to Basic, since his mattress is bare. He kneels to open the trunk at the foot of the bed and finds a few blankets and a pillow. Everything smells like mothballs.

Wash is conked out on the couch still in his clothes. North contemplates waking him so he can unfold the sofa bed, but decides against it. They have to be on base by 0800, and Wash needs all the sleep he can get. Instead North throws a blanket over him and gently nudges the blond head off the armrest so he can tuck a pillow under his cheek. Wash screws up his nose and slurs something incomprehensible. In the blue light of the distant battery-lamp his features are softened and he looks even more impossibly young than usual. PFL recruited Wash right out of Basic, York had told him once, just like Carolina. Not for the first time, North wonders what kind of life Wash led before the project, whether he was a regular kid blessed with raw talent or if something had got to him early that made it so easy for the military to turn him into a highly efficient killing machine. There's always been something about Wash that sets North on edge, something not-quite-right about the "harmless rookie in over his head" routine. Wash never showed his face if he could help it, and North has known enough wounded people in his life to know that that means something. What it means for Wash, though, he can't say.

South pokes her head in from the kitchen, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth.

"Sink's broke," she gurgles at him. North tucks the blanket in around Wash's shoulders and stands up.

"There's bottled water in the pantry. I'll call the water company from base tomorrow."

"Nah." South spits a few times into the trash can, then runs her tongue along her teeth. They glisten blue in the lantern light. "This is fuckin' surreal."

"Tell me about it." North stares down at the lump on the sofa, Wash's rumpled blond hair. He used to daydream about York living here with them. Of course, York never slept on the sofa in those scenarios.

"Shukhevych must still live next door. I can hear that fucking dog of hers from my room. Hey, you okay?"

He's not entirely sure. "Yeah, I'm fine. Go to bed,  киска ."

"Aw, you remember my nickname," she sneers, turning to climb the stairs "It's like I never left this shithole."

* * *

 

For once, it's North who can't sleep, not Theta. He winds up sitting at the kitchen table with a slice of cold pizza, paging through 'The Iliad'. There's underlining and brackets in pencil around passages he liked, back when he was young and naive and thought life in the military was going to be romantic. He finds them a bit embarrassing now. A few short weeks spent huddled in the cargo bay of a Pelican, sluggishly tracing the Pleiades as the filtered air got colder and staler with every short sleep cycle- well, that had frozen the romanticism right out of him, long before he'd killed a man for the first time.

He doesn't even remember  _ that  _ very well now, either. There's been a lot of dead people. He used to promise himself that he wouldn't lose count.

North skips to a random page, and reads:

"But as it is, death is everywhere, in more shapes than we can count, and since no mortal is immune or can escape, let's go forward, either to give glory to another man, or get glory from him."

Wash is so silent in sleep that North's forgotten about him, but he jolts upright when North snaps the book shut.  _ Oops _ , says Theta. Then,  _ It's 0530. You wanted me to tell you, right? _

The sun is rising. Wash rubs at his eyes and grumbles.

"Wanna go get coffee?" North offers.

"'Kay."

* * *

 

**CT.**

It's a sign of how exhausted CT is that she doesn't wake up the instant the door opens. Instead, footsteps along the outside edge of the room alert her to her company. She slides her hand soundlessly beneath the pillow and grips the knife, tensing to roll. The footsteps stop by the easy chair, and then the body they belong to sits down. There's a clicking noise.

CT flips herself off the bed and crouches for cover, sighting along the mattress with the blade poised between thumb and forefinger. The man in the chair puts his hands up. He's holding a lighter. The bright red dot of a cigarette moves along his mouth, jumping as he speaks.

"Easy, Ms. Lockerby. I don't make a habit of shooting ladies while they sleep."

"You must be the Chairman." CT flips the blade to grip it by the handle, but doesn't put it down "I guess the 'Do Not Disturb' sign doesn't mean much to politicians. This is a non-smoking room."

"Former Chairman," he corrects, exhaling a plume of smoke "Now I'm back to just owning the Greater Chicago Industrial Zone and its considerable heft in the Senate. Don't worry about the bill, you were never going to get one."

CT's alarm goes off. The Chairman reaches over to press the snooze button.

"I have to admit, I envisioned us meeting under entirely different circumstances," he says, and CT finally sits down. "I suppose it's for the best."

"For the best? He's going to get away with it! You capitol hill types just can't resist sticking your noses in everything." CT pulls her duffel out from under the bed and unzips an outer pocket, grabs her travel toothbrush.

"The information your agency gathered during Project Freelancer is  _ invaluable _ . The public, and their elected officials, deserve access to it. How else can we make informed decisions about military funding and strategy?"

"Oh, drop the campaign trail bullshit," says CT, drinking water from the tap and then wetting the brush "You know as well as I do who makes the real decisions."

"And yet, it's a former member of  _ your  _ agency who made this one. Could it be that the Office of Naval Intelligence is not, in fact, one big happy family?"

CT keeps brushing, stares at the Chairman in the mirror over the sink. The alarm goes off again. He turns it off properly, this time.

"In fact, I have some reason to believe that you've found a new family. I can't imagine your handler will be happy when she learns that."

CT spits. "They had nothing to do with it."

"Yes, they were just being used. Caught in the crossfire. But 'you know as well as I do'," the voice rises a bit, mockingly "That 'I'm just a patsy' doesn't go over well in military tribunals. If they can't have the Director, they'll settle for his lost sheep. We lost a lot of money in this one, Lockerby, and a lot of public trust. Someone is going to have to pay."

CT grabs a pair of fatigues from the duffel and steps into the bathroom to change.

"Is that a threat?" She calls from behind the door "Why are you here, if you're just going to talk nonsense?"

"I like you, Ms. Lockerby." CT steps out of the bathroom, still buttoning up her pants. "It's rare, these days, to find people who are both ethical and intelligent." CT just gives him a baleful look. She hates it when people call her intelligent. It always sounds like they looked at her chest and expected her not to be.

"Get to the point," she says, zipping the bag back up "I have to be on base within the hour."

"We'll take my car," he says. Then, "Please, Agent Connecticut."

They take his car.

* * *

 

CT watches the Zone stagger by through the tinted window, all concrete and iron. The seats in the car are set low and she sinks into hers, smelling soft, expensive leather. There's a mini-bar. She's not impressed.

"What was that about my teammates?" she asks, settling the duffel on her lap so that he can see the knife, outlined where it's strapped to her thigh.

"They're in no danger from me, or from the UNSC."

"I'm sensing a 'but'."

"But. Certain individuals, individuals who might have invested large sums of money and  _ specific articles of property  _ in Project Freelancer are likely interested in recouping their investment. The individuals in question are not known to be overly concerned with the well-being of the persons who are currently in possession of said items."

CT nods sharply in agreement. She's already thought about this, extensively. It's one of the reasons she made sure York and North didn't leave the air-strip unaccompanied. It's also why she's going to run tracers on Tex as soon as she can get back into her office.

"I would never ask you to betray your agency," says the Chairman, very seriously, "But seeing as how ONI attention has been diverted away from Leonard Church for the moment, I propose that, in whatever free time you may find yourself enjoying, with whatever resources your position might make available to you, that you keep an eye on him. A very close eye."

"I'm not going to send you classified information," CT warns him. The Chairman just smiles at her.

"I'm not asking you to. You don't have to contact me ever again, if you'd rather not. I trust you to take appropriate steps to deal with whatever it is you spy with that little eye of yours."

"Why do you care?" she asks, as the car rolls to a stop at the entrance to base "What is he to you?"

"I'm glad we had this talk," says the Chairman, and gets out to open the door for her.

* * *

 

**Wash.**

North's neighborhood coffee shop is actually really good. Wash polishes off two donuts and is still working on his giant cappuccino when they hop off the MagLev at Waukegan. There's a CUCV waiting for them, the same model truck that picked Carolina and York up the night before.

“Agents Lysenko, Lysenko, and uh... Barrington?” The driver leans out the window and waves a clipboard at them.

“That's us,” North confirms, and the three of them pile in. It's a short ride to base and South teases Wash about his surname the _entire_ way, which just seems unfair, because he can't very well rib her about _hers_ when North's right there.

Carolina, York, CT, and Maine are waiting for them just past the checkpoint, dressed in dark blue fatigues and looking tired and impatient. Well, everyone but York, who appears to be floating on air. Wash tries not to think about that one too hard.

“PERSCOM's in the CENTCOM building,” says Carolina, already turning on her heel “Come on, we're going to be late.”

“Can she still order us around?” Wash asks Maine, who shrugs, but gestures for them all to follow. They must have found him some size 20 wides, because he's wearing standard grunt boots. Only, you know. Huge.

“PERSCOM? Not Special Forces?” North falls into step next to Connie, who casts a wry grin up at him.

“They hire and fire,” she replies lightly.

“I thought we were being debriefed?” Wash asks her, since she seems to be the only person besides Carolina who knows what's going on, and Wash really doesn't want to talk to Carolina right now “Are they seriously firing us? How is that fair?”

“Man, you two are slow on the uptake,” says South, indicating Wash and, he guesses, North, “Project's _canceled_. Our jobs don't exist anymore. We have been _canned._ ”

“But I'm _enlisted_ ,” Wash protests, only realizing he's clenching his fists in his hair when Maine's massive hand taps on his head to make him let go. He lets go, reluctantly.

_ Not technically _ . Delta floats over from York, who's still ignoring them in lieu of watching Carolina's ponytail swing back and forth, to blink greenly at him.  _ Good morning, everyone. North. Theta. _

“ _Hey Delta,”_ they reply at the same time. 

Wash's head hurts. “Explain,” he says, then pauses. “Use small words.”

_ Project Freelancer, while technically a branch of Special Forces, was an experimental program funded by a private individual and utilizing technologies designed by that individual's private security company,  _ supplies Delta,  _ For the duration of the Project, you and your fellow agents were closer to military contractors than military personnel.  _

“And yet, still no overtime,” York sighs “Director just matched my shitty E-3 pay-scale. I was in it for the glory, what can I say?”

Delta flickers.  _ Wash, don't you remember negotiating your contract with the Project? _

“Uh, I signed some papers, I think?” North looks at him with an expression half-way between pitying and incredulous. “Look, they promised me a code name and really sweet gear, I would have signed whatever they wanted!”

“They performed _brain surgery_ on you, Wash.” North is definitely leaning over the line towards incredulous “ _Please_ tell me you gave informed consent for that.”

“It's just a neural port,” Wash mumbles as they ascend the concrete stairs into a featureless bureaucratic-looking building, “I would have asked more questions if I was gonna get a real AI.” Then, he remembers. “Hey, the chick in the truck called me _Agent_ Barrington. I must still work for the military, or it'd be Mister, right?”

South cackles. “Not a rank, dude.”

And, they're in.

* * *

 

"Oh, LT Lockerby, hello." One of the grunts by the door  _ snaps _ to attention as they file in and fan out in front of the table. Wash looks behind them to see if someone was following that he didn't notice, somehow. But there's no one there.

"At ease, Private" says Connie, sighing.

"Uh, Connie?" Wash gapes at her. North and York just glance at each other, doing that  _ thing _ they do. 

"Not now, Wash," Connie and Carolina say, at exactly the same time.

The man at the table has two piles of paper in front of him and a sour expression.

“You lot,” he says, “don't appear to _have_ CSVs on file. Since this is not actually possible, I can only assume that whatever it is you do, it's so far above my pay-grade that I'm putting my life at risk by just having you in my office.”

“Relax,” says York. “We're harmless.”

The man ignores him, just grabs a handful of pens from a drawer and throws them on the desktop.

“Severance forms on the left, if you're leaving. You get a nice lump sum and a gag order. Employment forms on the right, if you're staying. Upstairs tells me that you're to fill those out however you want. I suspect it doesn't actually matter. Tell them you aced the aptitude battery, can bench press 480, and have a PhD in astrophysics, why the hell not? Rules are for the rest of us.”

“That's it?” says North “We can just... go?”

“Take the money and run, Dakota,” York reaches easily for the stack on the left “I already gave them an eye.”

“How can they just let you go when you have, uh,” Wash waves his hand vaguely around the back of his head.

“Project's over, Wash,” says Connie, clicking one of the pens open and neatly filling in her service number on the top of an employment packet “There's no one left who cares. You're fine, I promise.”

“ _You_ promise?” South has her arms folded across her chest while she leans over Connie's shoulder “do _Lieutenants_ have the authority to do that?”

“I was in Logistics before the Project, South, it's really not a big deal. And yes, I talked with the Chairman. No one's going to come for you at night, North. Just don't... sell him, or anything.”

North doesn't even dignify that with a response. Wash is still kind of surprised to see him grab two severance forms. He passes one off to South, who signs it with a flourish.

“Seeya, suckers!” she crows, “I'm off to get _trashed_.” 

“It's not even nine in the morning,” Wash protests, feeling dizzy “Look, doesn't anyone need to _think_ about this for a second?”

“Apparently not,” says Carolina, handing her employment packet to the man behind the desk and glaring at York. “What are you gonna do with yourself, huh?”

“Cook you breakfast every morning,” he grins, slinging an arm over her shoulder “Beyond that, I'll have to see.”

“Stop it,” says North, drily, “I'm going to be sick.”

“I'll see you at the mess, CT,” Carolina salutes, and Connie gives her a thumbs up in return. “Come on, York. I have to talk with housing if you're not going to re-enlist, they'll need to move us.”

“Wash, I'll be outside, okay?” North claps him on the shoulder, and Wash nods automatically.

Then it's just him and Maine, who's got a copy of each form and is reading them very carefully. Wash plops down in a chair and looks desperately at the man across the desk.

“I don't know what to do,” he says. The man shrugs.

“It's a good deal, the severance. Full veterans benefits, what you'd have at the end of your tour anyhow, plus a cash payout. There's really no reason to stay on, unless you want to ship out again.”

“Unless I'm a soldier, you mean,” Wash mumbles, looking at his hands and realizing suddenly that he has no idea if that's true, anymore. He's starting to wonder if it was ever true. _Experimental program_ , Delta had said. _Private security company._

Maine taps Wash on the shoulder, and points to a section on the severance form titled “Educational Assistance Program.”

“Benefits may be used to pursue an undergraduate or graduate degree at a college or university, vocational training program, apprenticeship, or accredited independent study program,” Wash reads, “These include tuition reimbursement, book allowance, and a stipend adjusted for cost of living- you're going to back to school?”

Maine nods. Then he smiles, almost shyly. “Applied Physics.”

“Take the money, kid,” says the man behind the desk, “If you can't find anything else you're good at, come back. There's always room here for folks who don't know any better.”

Wash's signature reads “David L. Barrington”. He stares at it for a minute. He's still staring when Maine plucks the form out of his hands, places it on the desk, and guides Wash out of the room with a warm hand on his back.

* * *

 

“I don't know who I am anymore,” Wash says, when they step outside onto the plaza where North is waiting. Maine pats him on the head.

“Yeah,” says North. “We'll figure it out though, okay?”

* * *

 

**South.**

South doesn't actually get trashed. Instead she gets a sweet young Marine hanging outside the USO in civvies to give her a ride downtown. They motor along in the girl's pickup with Lake Michigan on their left and sprawling industrial parks on their right. The girl is round-faced and green-eyed and reminds South of her high school girlfriend, all goofy smiles and nervous laughter, the kind of girl it's easy to pick up but a pain to get rid of. South kisses her anyway when they stop for gas, presses her shorter body into the side of the truck and hooks her fingers into the girl's belt loops, practically fucking the soft mouth with her tongue. Shit, it's been way, way too long, and she hasn't sparred in days, either, her usual acceptable substitute. South wants to  _ wreck  _ this kid. She bites down instinctively, rocking her pelvis forward.

The girl's soft, sexy noises turn a little frantic. South pulls away. She's scared her. It's kind of a turn on, but she's also got that North-voice in the back of her head now, the one that gives long, boring lectures on consent.

"I should get going," the girl says, and there's the nervous laugh again "Are you okay to, um. Get off here?"

"Seeya around, sailor." South flashes her a quick shark grin, then pecks her on the lips and backs off, heading for the convenience store. She's been promising herself a chocolate bar since they got off the plane.

South is sitting on a park bench, chewing contentedly on her Snickers and watching kids run up and down the sidewalk, when she sees the helmets. They stare out at her from the shop window across the street, and for a moment she thinks that they're MJOLNIR suits, only narrower and more colorful. But no-these are familiar in a different way, the decal on the window reads "Dan's Extreme Motor Sport", and through the glass she can make out the silhouettes of handle bars and tires. South shoves the crumpled candy wrapper in her front pocket and crosses the street, stares right at her reflection in the visor of a purple helmet.

"Acceptable substitutes," she mumbles, sucking on her lower lip. "I wonder."

* * *

 

South spies an MX tire poking out from behind the ATVs, and trots over to inspect what it's attached to: a Delta lime green front fender, running sleekly back to the throttle body. The engine gleams behind the shift pedal, all tight steel and leashed power.

"Well  _ hello  _ there, beautiful," she murmurs to the bike. 

"Kawasaki," says the young man in a ratty polo who's been eying her since she came in, "Liquid-cooled, two-stroke engine."

"I know what a fucking bike looks like, thanks." South runs a hand down the front fork, feeling the metal warm. "Does it come in purple?"

"No, but you can replace the fenders if you want, or add decals." The kid indicates a wall behind him, where a colorful variety of polypropylene shapes are hanging. South looks at the helmet tucked under her arm (so familiar, and yet not). Suddenly the color isn't such a big deal. She just needs to  _ move _ . 

"Is it gassed up?" she asks, fishing out her wallet and herding the salesman back towards the register.

"Uh, yeah, if you want to do a loop around the-"

"I'll take her. It. I'll take it. How much?"

"What, like, right now? The floor model?"

South growls. Her trigger finger twitches. "Yes, right now. I give you money, you give me keys. That's how buying shit works." She needs to move. This could be it, this could be the thing, but she has to find out  _ right now _ or she doesn't know, she'll lose the moment, or something.

"Um, okay." The kid hands her a clipboard full of papers. South rips past the ones on financing to find a total, signs some "I promise I won't sue if this kills me" form, and then scrawls out a check.

It's not  _ all  _ of her severance pay, but it's a sizable chunk. Fuck it, life's short. 

* * *

 

The key comes on a lime green rubber fob in the shape of a snake. South realizes why when she wheels the bike out the back of the store and onto the street- there's a spitting cobra design etched into the steel of the muffler.

"Nice to meet you,  Мать Cobra ," she says, straddling the bike and feeling her right foot settle easily onto the peg as the left takes her weight. She clenches and unclenches her fists a few times, hearing the whine of new leather from the gloves. The helmet rests between her legs, staring up at her. She hefts the not-quite-familiar weight in her hands, turns it round, and pulls it over her head.

The sound of traffic dims, her vision swims pink, and nothing happens other than that. There's no meters, no radio crackling, no HUD pinging at her to reload or set her trackers. It's just South in there, breathing. Just her, and the road.

South smiles and kicks the engine over. The muted roar travels all the way up her legs, rattles her chest, fills her up with wild hope. She pins some throttle and eases off the clutch and kicks the gear up, up, up, slicing a lime green line towards Zone 8. Time to see what her lady can do.

* * *

 

**Maine.**

"You have  _ got  _ to be kidding me." North's very close to yelling, for North. His face is reddened and he shows teeth when he barks into the phone. "Have you ever made a responsible decision in your life?"

Maine bites into his meatball sub and chews, only half listening. He's thinking about advancements in continuum mechanics, trying to figure out whether it's worth it to send home for his textbooks or if he should just buy new ones. They might well be out of date. Slumped in the booth next to him, Wash is picking listlessly at his own sandwich. Maine spies a discarded banana pepper on the greasy paper and swipes it. Wash gives him a half-hearted glare, then sighs and picks off the rest of the peppers, setting them in a little pile on a napkin and handing them to Maine.

Maine grunts at him in thanks.

"Are you staying?" Wash asks him. Maine doesn't know what he's asking, and waits for him to clarify. Wash probably doesn't know what he's asking either; he needs to talk out loud in order to think. It's one of the things Maine both likes and finds puzzling about most people, Wash especially.

"I mean, are you gonna go to school around here, or go home, or what? Where's home for you, anyway? Boston, right?" Maine nods. Burke, Vermont, but it's close enough. Wash isn't an Earther, and it hasn't been home in a long time. "Bet schools are better in Boston, huh?"

Not necessarily. Maine shrugs, glances over to the back of the sub shop where North is still on the phone- South, presumably- with one hand over his face in the universal gesture of resigned dismay.

"No, I'm not telling you what to do, just- no, you can't have the whole garage, one of us is going to have to get a car at some point-"

Wash eats a strip of tomato. "Well, if you do stay, maybe we could hang out some time? I don't really know what I'm doing. I guess you don't know this place any better than I do, though."

Maine nods. He hadn't even considered abandoning Wash; they're friends. But Wash likes to be reassured that things won't suddenly change. It's another likeable, if puzzling, thing.

"Because we have a  _ guest _ , South, and you're the only one with a vehicle, and I have to deal with the utilities this afternoon, just  _ do  _ it."

Wash gives Maine a nervous little look. "You uh, wanna start that hanging out thing now?"

Maine nods. Wash takes two real bites of his sandwich, then tosses the rest in the trash. Maine does the same with his empty paper wrapper.

"Hey, North?" North presses the phone's mouthpiece into his shoulder and looks over at them. "We're gonna go back to Maine's hotel. I'll call you, okay?"

"Sure thing," North says, sounding distracted. Maine can now hear South's tinny bitching coming from the earpiece. Yeah, lots of reasons not to bunk at the Dakota family home. He doesn't blame Wash for wanting a break.

The hotel has a gym with a weight room. Maine's been waiting for a chance to use it since last night. He hasn't been able to go for a run yet either, though, and knowing how much of a tug Earth gravity is likely putting on Wash's system, that sounds like a better option. Who knows, maybe the endorphins will help cheer him up.

The hand over North's face migrates to clutch at his hair.

"No, it's  _ not  _ that I think you can't take care of yourself-"

The shop bell tinkles and the thump of the door closing cuts him off.

* * *

 

"Wait up, Christ," Wash whines from a few yards behind him. Maine turns around, jogging backwards in place.

"Slow," he says, trying, and failing, not to smirk. Wash's blue T-shirt is practically black, but Maine hasn't even broken a sweat.

"Not fair," Wash gasps, holding a stitch in his side, "Your legs are longer."

Maine shakes his head. "Gravity." He knew this was going to be a problem, but at least it's got Wash thinking about something other than his uncertain future. Just to tease him a little, and because the exercise and the thought of studying again is making Maine happy and playful, he adds: "Silly Spacer."

Wash growls at him, and lunges. Maine darts back, then forward again to catch Wash by the shoulder when he over-balances and heads for a face-plant.

"I'm done," he gasps into Maine's shirt "I give up."

Maine rumbles a laugh at him, setting Wash upright and making a show of dusting him off.

They end up in the weight room, Wash sitting on a medicine ball with a soda while Maine works at the bench press.

"Now I know why you're so scary big," Wash tells him "This place sucks."

Maine grunts. Wash will acclimatize within a few days. The difference in pull between Earth gravity and the simulated environment on the MOI is minimal; Wash's problem comes from growing up on colony. Despite the care taken with vitamins and supplementary training, recruits from off-world tend to have lower bone density. Maine never really got used to microgravity; it's one of the reasons he trained so obsessively on board the MOI. He'd read enough reports prior to enlisting about muscle atrophy and bone loss. It's possible his routine is overcompensating, but if he's honest, Maine likes feeling strong, likes taking up a lot of space. People used to underestimate him, push him around. They don't do that, anymore.

"So, physics? That's a little random, isn't it?"

Maine exhales on rep eight, and decides he's going for ten. Inhale.

"Or wait, were you joking, because of what that suit said about astrophysics? Not that I'm surprised- I mean, I'm kind of surprised, but I always knew you were smart-"

Exhale. Nine.

"York went to college too, you know? I think he dropped out, though. Or maybe got kicked out. He doesn't like to talk about it, which is weird for York-"

Inhale.

"I don't think I could go back. I didn't like school. Not sure what else to do, though- I can't crash on North's sofa forever-"

Exhale. Ten. Maine sets the bar into the cradle with a clang and sits up, finally sweating. Wash is picking the label off of his soda bottle.

"Maybe sign up again, I don't know. I mean, I never really thought about doing anything else. Just... Marines. That was always my plan. But now it feels like bad luck."

"No luck," says Maine, reaching for a towel. There's no such thing as luck. Wash watches him as he wipes sweat off his face and chest, then gives Maine a genuine Wash grin.

"But seriously, dude? 'Applied physics'? It's so nerdy."

Maine grins back, chucks him lightly on the head. Wash rocks off the medicine ball and lands on his back on the mat, waving his arms in the air. He's laughing.

"Help, help, I've fallen and I can't get up!"

Maine doesn't know why Wash is so afraid that everything's changed. It feels exactly like normal.

Just a little bit heavier.

 


	6. EAS (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 3 of End of Active Service. This part: Carolina/479er, York/North/Wash, violence, sex.

**South**.

The whoops at Antioch are _just_ far enough apart that South can't skim them properly. She knows this going in, but still curses loud enough to hear over the roar of the engine when her Lady hits them and things get bumpy. South rocks up on her toes and tries to loosen up, lets the bike come to her, suppresses the urge to force the handlebars straight, _trusts_. She can trust this partner, after all.

Number 87 on the Kawi in front of her lands sideways and fishtails, spraying her with dirt. South just keeps riding the waves, doesn't flinch. There's a corner coming up and she wants her lead back. She lets the momentum on the last whoop carry them into the corner, stretching her leg out and pinning the throttle. Her Lady drops low to the ground, steel just whispering over South's pants leg. Mud coats the sparkling rims. South rocks them back upright on the retreat, leans forward, and cranks the gas.

This part of the lap is nice and straight- the jumps won't slow her down, won't distract her. She noticed early on that 87's a bit of a show-off, can't stand to pass up good air. Idiot. It'll lose him this race.

South scrubs every damn jump, staying low, keeping rubber on dirt for as long as possible. She shoots past the Kawi, and the two guys on Kivus, who waste their time pulling whips. The Omni rider who overshot his jump on the first go-round is still taking a dirt nap a couple hundred yards from the gate. They've moved him onto the shoulder, at least. South didn't even see where his bike landed, but if it's not in front of her, she doesn't care.

One more lap. It's just her and 13, now.

Lucky 13's bike is a custom. South's pretty sure it used to be a VKP, but she didn't get a good look at the frame back at the gate. It doesn't really matter. South knows the engine outclasses hers. But the problem with customs is that they're heavy. It's real easy to make a mistake. And it's been a long race; South is counting on 13 getting tired and sloppy.

Her Lady's an old fashioned girl. It takes her a bit longer to accelerate than 13's fancy engine. South compensates for this by never slowing down, angles the green nose _just_ right into every turn, rides each and every one of them out with her face nearly in the dirt. North's probably having a heart attack right about now. She told him to stand over by the whoops, but does he listen? Her brother doesn't know what's good for him, much less anyone else.

South shaves out a hairpin turn that even makes _her_ heart stop for a second. Then she's neck and neck with 13 on the slalom stretch heading for the whoops. Well, this'll either kill her, or net her 800 credits.

They trade places on the turns, 13 outgunning her along the outside while South slithers in, staying tight. If she so much as clips her foot on the terrain, she's done. Possibly permanently. It feels _great_.

"Come on in, bitch!" she shouts at her rival, knowing 13 probably can't hear her, "Water's great!"

It's mostly mud, actually. South flies out of the slaloms with half her visor caked in it. She doesn't even want to think about what the rest of her looks like.

There's a short flat stretch before the whoops where fans are standing along the shoulder, waving flags and beers. 13 cuts South off, rather aggressively, forcing her to move away from the inside to avoid crashing. Motherfucker. She has to get ahead on either the whoops or that last corner; the custom will kick her ass on the straight.

"What do you think, beautiful? Can you skim those for me?" she doesn't think the bike _actually_ understands her; that would be fucking dumb. But sometimes, when she pins the throttle and leans forward and just _trusts_ , it feels like the hot steel grows just a little softer, a little more accommodating.

Her Lady nods over the whoops, so lightly, barely rocking up and down. It's a _perfect_ blitz, like she's riding on dust. They slide into the corner so easy, South's kind of disappointed North isn't standing up here to see her.

13's gone, stuck bouncing in 4 foot whoops with that heavy bike and its heavy engine, probably getting his balls pounded. Sucker.

South rips it to the finish, pulling smooth scrubs down the line, and thinks about what she's going to buy with her nice little windfall. She could hire a prostitute for Wash. That would be fun. Tsipkin down the road is still selling that nice torque wrench set.

_Or maybe_ , she grins into the helmet, _it's time for that ink_.

* * *

 

South weaves her way through the crowd, high fiving anyone who offers and scanning for a tall blond head. She's in a damn good mood. Not even having these three bozos around can spoil it.

"Oh man, did you see that guy on the yellow one? Dude got _fucked up_!" Wash is bouncing on the balls of his feet, in danger of sloshing his can of beer onto York. He sounds positively gleeful, and South remembers that he's kind of a mean drunk. Then, looking guiltily up at North, who's frowning, he tries again. "Uh, I hope he's okay?"

"The Omni? He's fine," says South, flipping her visor up. Chunks of drying dirt rain down onto her face. "He bailed early enough."

"He's lucky he wasn't run over," North says, then turns to her. He opens his mouth.

She holds up a gloved hand. Her palms are pretty much the only part of her body not caked in mud. "Before you start," she says, very seriously "I just need you to answer this question. Was I, or was I not, totally fucking awesome?"

North pulls her into a- well, not a hug. Hug is not a strong enough word. It's more like a body lock. "You were awesome," he says, laughing breathily "Jesus Christ."

"Totally fucking awesome," York corrects him, and salutes South with his can. She nods back. She still can't move the rest of her body.

"Let me go, North," she tells him, "I am full of adrenaline and need to find a cutie to crash with."

"Incorrigible," he says, stepping back.

"I'm not kidding." She's really not. Motocross chicks are pretty much always up for at least a cuddle, and South needs a cuddle. Not a North cuddle, though. The other kind of cuddle. The kind with tits.

She feels kind of floaty, all of a sudden.

"You three should cuddle," South tells them, stupidly, "It's like the opposite of tits cuddles." Okay, there's the crash. Here it comes.

"'Tits cuddles'?" York grins, wicked and huge. Wash just looks embarrassed. Really embarrassed, actually. She'll have to investigate that when her brain isn't quite so... jittery.

North screws up his face and leans in, like he's trying to look at her pupils. "I'm not sure we should leave you alone." He pulls South's helmet off, tucks it under his arm.

"But," she says, "Cuties. And I won, bro, so I'm a hot commodity around here, I am all over this shit, I am in like Flynn-"

_Hypomania and sexual arousal are common sequelae to adrenal hormone cascade,_ says Delta, _it will wear off once South has had a chance to sleep._

Sleep does sound like a really good idea. So does cuties, though. And wait, what about-

"What about my Lady?" she asks North's t-shirt "Someone's gotta get her home."

"Holy shit, can I? I'm totally sober, I swear." Wash seems to have recovered.

"NO," say York and North, at exactly the same time.

"Look," North tells her, "Why don't you take a nap in the car. We'll go find some real food, we have the whole rest of the day to get home."

"Corn dogs are real food," says Wash, probably just to be contrary.

They get her to the car. South babbles the entire way, something about corners and the problem with customs is that they're heavy. North reclines the passenger seat and makes her lie down.

"So much for the upholstery," she hears North complaining from somewhere above her.

"Oh, you're covered in it, too. Don't be a bitch, North." That's York. No one gets to call North a bitch but South and York.

"Yeah North," she slurs, "Don't be a bitch".

And falls asleep.

* * *

 

"Did you take something?" York asks her later, when they've gotten back to the house and South's wiping the last of the mud off her Lady's rims with a rag "You can tell me, I won't snitch."

"Snitches get stitches," South returns, automatically "But nah, I don't do that shit."

"I've never seen you crash like that," York says, hopping up on the empty steel motorcycle lift. "What was that about?"

The garage is nice. She did end up with the entire thing- on-street parking is good enough for North's dumb mom van, after all- and she's been slowly outfitting it with her prize money and the occasional paycheck from bar tending. Her most recent acquisition is a six foot, 13-drawer steel rolling tool cabinet. It weighs over four hundred pounds with drawers in. She's painting it lilac; drying components are scattered on newsprint all along the back wall.

"The fuck you care?" she asks him, tossing the dirty rag at his face. York snatches it out of the air. "Get off my lift, loser."

York ignores her. "North's worried. He says you're normally just bitchy after dangerous shit, and I figure he's run enough missions with you to know."

"It's different," South tells him, scratches a stubborn clod of dirt off the side of the tank, "And he didn't call me bitchy."

"I'm paraphrasing," York admits "Why is it different?"

"How the fuck should I know? It just is, okay?"

"I'm just sayin'," York shrugs "If you took something, you can tell me."

"What's the matter, York? Can't find a dealer anywhere on that tight-ass military base? Times getting hard for the Marine wife?"

He tosses the rag back at her. It lands with a splat on the concrete. "I'm just trying to understand the adrenaline junkies I surround myself with."

"I didn't take shit," she repeats "Go psychoanalyze your girlfriend. That's what this is really about, isn't it?" It's a stab in the dark, but chances are good that with York, it's about Carolina.

"You're funny," he tells her, getting down off the lift and heading for the door.

"Or is it about my brother?" she calls after him, just in case that last one didn't _quite_ hit the mark "Don't come to _me_ for help with whatever weird homoerotic codependency it is you two have going on, I've known him for twenty eight years and _still_ don't get what his damage is!"

York flips her off, then there's a rustling noise and she hears him say, "Sorry dude, didn't see ya there".

South looks up. Wash is standing in the doorway holding a pair of beers, one of which has sloshed foam onto the floor.

"Um, dinner's ready?" He's blushing again. Interesting.

York makes an apologetic noise. "I gotta get back to base. I promised I'd bring Lina dinner after her shift."

"You need a ride?" Wash asks. South keeps her mouth shut about how whipped York is because man, Wash is throwing off tells like a drive engine MBH throws off Hawking radiation. She half expects him to evaporate and send the garage rocketing into slipspace.

York grins his 'I'm a charming maverick' grin, totally oblivious to the effect it seems to have on Wash. "Nah, CT's sending a truck. Actual free rides and occasional free lunches- one of the benefits of having an insider in Logistics."

Suddenly South's forgotten about Wash's Big Gay Revelation. "You talked to CT? When?"

"Yeah, Lina and her see each other all the time," York scratches the back of his neck "Why, you need something?"

That bitch. "That bitch," South says.

CT hasn't so much as called her since they parted ways at the CENTCOM building. Not that South has called CT- at least, not more than twice. Okay, maybe five times. She might have been drunk for some of those times, but that doesn't mean Connie shouldn't have called her back. It's just rude.

"Actually," says York, "I just realized I don't want to know. I'm gonna go say bye to North."

South doesn't even rib him about it, although she's pretty sure using the word 'homoerotic' one more time would make Wash choke on his beer.

Fucking CT.

That total bitch.

* * *

 

**Carolina**.

The third squad they give Carolina is all older men. When she walks into the training room the first time, they don't stand at attention. They don't even stop what they're doing. One of them _smiles_ at her. She makes a mental note to find out what drills he hates the most, so she can adjust his schedule.

"Ok, fellas, let's nip this in the bud right off," Carolina yanks a pugil stick down off the wall and cracks her neck. She hasn't got time for this shit, she's supposed to be leading these bozos off-world in two days, keeping them alive in uncertain conditions. "Marcos, Richmond, Elias, and De Paulo. On the floor, gentlemen."

"De Paulo always beats Elias, it's not fair to him," says the smiler. Either Marcos or Richmond, then. Her money's on Marcos. E-3s always got uppity, walking that line between getting orders and giving them.

"De Paulo isn't sparring with Elias," Carolina tells him, re-familiarizing herself with the weight of the pugil stick. "You're all sparring with me. Get a stick, get on the floor."

"Mrrow," says Smiley. "Who's first?"

"All of you. _Now_ , Lance Corporal."

They _laugh_ at her. Carolina doesn't feel at all bad about dropping the four of them to the mat, just a few love taps with the pugil to the back of the knees. Smiley lays there for a second, as if he doesn't quite believe it.

"Lucky shot," he says, finally pushing himself up and taking a stick. "Elias, you're on point. Richmond, flank left. She's fast."

"No such thing as luck, gentlemen." Carolina growls, loping over to the center of the floor and sinking into a defensive stance, pugil balanced behind her back.

They stay in formation for all of three seconds. Smiley- Marcos, best to be professional- clearly chose Elias for his speed; the shorter man charges in first, tries to overwhelm her. It probably works for him a good deal of the time, but he's still slow compared to Carolina. She brushes him off easily with one end of the pugil, sending him stumbling past her. She resists the urge to kick out at his midsection, reminds herself she's here to train these men, not incapacitate them.

Marcos and Richmond come up on her sides, aiming at her shins. Carolina jumps, letting the pugils swing past over the floor and cracks Marcos a good one on the back of the head with her own stick. When her feet hit the floor, she taps Richmond on his shoulder with one end of the stick and gets Elias in the forehead with the other, where he's coming up behind her. Richmond falls back. Elias just falls. Whoops. She hears his pugil clatter and roll off to the side.

De Paulo, who's apparently been reluctant to fight four on one, jumps in, stick swinging. He's practiced but not flashy, no sloppy feints or wasted energy. Carolina engages him head on, enjoying the rhythm of a spar with someone who knows what they're doing, even if he is rather slow and predictable. She uses the split seconds in between De Paulo's moves to catch Richmond and Marcos with the back end of the pugil whenever they get too close.

Carolina promised herself no feet, but Elias is back up and doesn't seem to have read the rulebook. He swipes a low kick at her just as Carolina's blocking a two-handed down-swipe from De Paulo, leaving her lower half exposed and her balance compromised. She takes the fall, turns it into a side roll. De Paulo's stick cracks over Elias' thigh instead.

"Aw, fuck," he shouts, cradling his leg.

Carolina comes back up with the pugil swinging clockwise over her head, catching Richmond on the chin and then reversing the rotation to clip him on the back of the head. He stumbles, trips over Elias, and goes down heavily. Marcos lunges at her from behind, and she easily ducks back down, surging up when his center of gravity passes over her shoulders to roll him over into the pile.

De Paulo's stick is back up in a standard guard, and he starts a side swipe at her exposed chest. Carolina blocks it with her lower arm and then grabs the pugil with one hand, yanking it towards her and sending De Paulo off balance. She taps him in the stomach with the end of her own stick, and he drops, losing his grip.

Carolina sets the two sticks upright on the floor, staring down at her team. Someone in the pile whimpers.

"Attention!" She barks. They're up and in formation instantly. Good. She can work with this.

"Now that we've established who's in charge here," Carolina says, voice positively dripping sarcasm "You're going to run laps around the facility. And then I'm going to brief you. Then we're going to spar some more. Because we have work to do, and after that sorry display I'm not sure you're cut out for it."

Marcos, blushing furiously but still at attention, stares straight ahead over Carolina's shoulder. "How many laps, Sir?"

"Tell you what, Marcos," Carolina says, and _smiles_ at him "Why don't you start running, and I'll tell you when to stop."

* * *

 

"I don't like it," York says, for the hundredth time "Who's gonna watch your back, huh? A bunch of nobody randoms?"

They're snuggled up on the sofa, Carolina practically in York's lap. There's take-out, thank god. Usually York cooks, because he's got nothing else to do, but Carolina has a vague memory of him telling her about something going on today up near the Dakotas'. He sounded excited about it, which is rare for York, lately. She should pay better attention. He's been depressed, she knows. She just doesn't know what to _do_ about it.

Carolina bites into her burrito with gusto. She's really hungry. She wound up running the laps with them, partly as a show of solidarity, but mostly to shame the bastards a little. No endurance on these REMFs. This must be her penance for Tex- a work environment with no one even remotely in her league.

She's moving down in the world. Way, way down. She tries not to resent York for it; he didn't actually _ask_ Carolina to stick to short-term, in-system deployments. If he'd asked, she'd probably have dumped him on the spot. No, York's emotional grip over her is much more subtle and insidious. Seeing him sad actually makes Carolina hurt, somewhere in her chest and throat, and she hates that, hates how York probably doesn't even know he's doing it.

She imagines York alone in the kitchen of their two-bedroom pre-fab base housing unit, holding a mug of cold coffee, waiting to hear if she's hurt, or missing, or dead, knowing that whatever news he does get will be weeks old: that he'll never know the moment she _does_ die, that he'll have to live with knowing that he went days and days just like normal, while somewhere in space Carolina's body was lying zipped up in a bag. Carolina knows this half-existence all too well, and she _will_ make sacrifices to ensure York isn't subjected to it. Still, that kernel of resentment-

He does bring her chili verde burritos for dinner, though. That's worth a lot in Carolina's book. And the regular sex has drastically improved her general mood. She slurps a gobbet of tomatillo out of the aluminum wrapper. Planet-side take-out is heavenly.

"I'll be fine. It's just some recon, York." It's not just some recon. But York doesn't need to know that.

"Yeah, and you would actually be safer if you didn't have to babysit the seven damn dwarves. You should take Dee with you." Time for a change of subject. Carolina decided early on that she has to keep this part of her life to herself, to keep from going crazy. Who knew York would turn into such an over-bearing fuck?

York buries his nose in her hair, inhales shakily, like he's really worried. His hands run up and down her arms, and then the left strays higher to ghost over the port behind her ear. Such an oblivious, over-bearing fuck.

Carolina tamps down on the surge of exasperated affection. "There's four of them, and they're not so bad. They'll be better once we're done." That's important, too, she reminds herself. The mission may be pretty inconsequential, some piracy clean-up along the belt, but she has the opportunity to whip four Marines into better shape, teach them something. It'll improve their life expectancy, if nothing else.

It's much harder to make life better for people than it is to just kill them. More boring, too. But it's the right thing to do, right? Try to do good, try to be better. That's her mantra, these days. Try to be better. It's replaced 'try to be best'.

"So, that's a 'no'."

"Yes, York, it's a 'no'. Let's talk about something besides work, okay?" Carolina balls up the burrito wrapper and sinks it in the trash can across the room. Nothing but net. She'll have to move it somewhere more challenging if eating on the couch is going to become a thing. "How was everyone?"

"Good. You should come visit more often, they're much more fun now that no one's shooting at them all day."

Carolina rather doubts this. Being shot at all day brought out the best, and the worst, in her team. But they were always, always fun.

But then she thinks of York's eye, and feels shitty.

"Tell me," she says, twining their hands together and leaning back into him "Tell me about your day, _dear_."

York smiles into her neck.

_Try to be better_ , she thinks, and listens.

* * *

 

"Attention _Catherine Wheel,_ " Carolina says into her radio "This is Sergeant Church of the UNSC Anti-Piracy Task Force. You have been flagged for boarding. Please confirm." She doesn't expect to hear anything back. Her team are already prepared for a force boarding. Command has been tracking this freighter for weeks.

" _Catherine Wheel_ ," Carolina repeats, checking her ammo again and nodding at De Paulo, who gestures for their pilot to ready the grapplers "Please acknowledge last transmission. If you fail to comply, I am authorized to board you forcibly."

The freighter's main cannon rotates towards them.

"Oh, please," says Elias, from the pod. He's sitting across from Marcos, who's squeezed rather unhappily next to Richmond. Even in identical power suits she can tell them apart just by their posture. Marcos is like York, telegraphs every complaint through his shoulders.

Carolina sighs. "Just hook us, Caltrop. Pile in, people." De Paulo jogs past her to swing down into the pod. There's grumbling.

"Hole to hole, De Paulo," says Marcos, "Not hole to pole."

"Don't be crude," says De Paulo.

"Fag," Marcos returns.

"Less pillow talk, gentlemen," Carolina barks at them "Check your ammo."

"Grappler launch and pod line ejection in thirty," says Caltrop from the cockpit "Have a nice drop, Sarge."

Carolina salutes him, and swings into the pod after De Paulo. The bay door seals shut, and the lights go on just as the pod closes. Her men scramble to make room for her. No grumbling this time, she notes.

A grappler drop line is like a tiny space elevator. The _Concertina_ fires a telescoping arm with a drill bit at the end, which punctures the target's hull and then expands, peeling back just enough room for the front end of the pod. The pod rockets down the line head-first, and lodges half-way through the hull, sealing the hole. Ideally, this process takes less than a second- you still don't want to be in that area of the target ship, and if something goes wrong, it means vacuum.

Carolina doesn't much care. Idiots should have just acknowledged. But they _never_ do.

Caltrop always tries to drop them as close to the bridge as possible, but on a freighter 80 to 90 percent of the space is going to be cargo bay, and she'd really rather end up there than have the _Concertina_ take fire just trying to land a grappler.

The pod lights flicker on, and they're go. Poor Elias, who made the rookie mistake of getting into the pod first, makes an "oofing" noise as the rest of them flatten back onto him with the force of the drop. There's the scrape of titanium, and then the pod door hisses open. Noise is good, means they're sealed in properly. Carolina climbs out into the cargo bay with her shield up and MA5B ready. It's stupidly heavy and takes forever to reload. She misses her Plasma Rifles.

A cube wrapped in brown paper floats by in front of her. It's not unusual. Even commercial freighters tend not to pressurize their bays on long trips, which is also why-

"It's fucking cold!" Richmond gripes, switching on his mag boots and hitting the wall with a clang.

"Watch your sides, Richmond," Carolina reminds him. There's very little cover, with the exception of the floating steel pallets and she doesn't know what's in the wrapped bricks stacked and tied down on top of them.

"Yessir," he says, and obediently steps to put his back to the pod while the rest of them disembark.

Carolina scans the giant bay. Her HUD doesn't register any heat or helmets other than theirs. Then there's a series of pings, centered beyond a small door on the far wall.  

"Move up," she says "Elias, Marcos, flank that door at one o'clock. Richmond, stay on the wall and cover us. De Paulo, with me." She shuts down her shield and kicks off, heading for the grated stairs below the doorway. The frequency of pings increases.

The door bangs open. There's a spray of bullets, and Carolina notes that okay, shots fired, she is officially allowed to kill people. She grabs hold of a stair rail and uses her momentum to swing up, catching the first man out the door with her foot and sending him flying down towards what would be the floor. She shoots the SMG out of his hand as he falls, hears De Paulo grab it by the barrel.

Elias is faster than Marcos, as always, and slides in between the door and the wall, poking his head and muzzle out to pick off two of the men still coming up through the hallway.

"Headshot", he says, unnecessarily. There's a booming sound and buckshot sprays dents in the metal door, which rocks back open to hit Elias in the forehead. He drops his SMG and floats out towards the middle of the room. Carolina's BioScan tells her he's unconscious.

"Christ," says Carolina, flipping on her own mag boots and latching onto the wall above the door. "Marcos, pick him up, please."

Richmond leans out from behind the pod and tries to snipe the shotgunner, but the round whizzes high and clips the top of the doorframe instead, a few inches from Carolina's toes.

"We're in zero-g, Richmond," she shouts at him "Stop compensating for tug."

"Sorry," Richmond calls back. The shotgun racks and fires again just as Marcos grabs Elias by the spaulder and yanks him out of the way. Stray buckshot scatters. One of the floating bricks explodes in a cloud of white dust.

"Hah, no way," crows Marcos, helmet coated in what looks like, but is probably not, baking soda.

Another rack, another boom. "Richmond, please take your shot," Carolina says.

He does. This one actually does clip her foot.

"Fuck! Which one of the seven dwarves is 'Fraggy'?"

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Richmond sounds like he's going to piss himself "I can just-".

Rack. Bang. Another coke brick blows up. It's making it hard to see.

"No," says Carolina, " _You_ can guard the pod."

She waits for the gunner in the hall to take a step forward, listens for where his mag boot clicks, and hopes the floor in the hallway is as smooth as she thinks it is. At least in zero-g this is no more complicated than lining up a pool shot.

She fires one round down into the hall, hears it ricochet, and then there's a wet sound and a few blood crystals float idly out into the cargo bay. One of the helmets on her HUD reads "Equipment Failure".

"Did you get him?" That's De Paulo.

"I got his transmitter so yeah, probably." These guys really are idiots. "Check your damn HUD before you ask me stupid questions. Come on, we're moving up."

Carolina swings down into the hall, rifle up, and lands on her good foot. The BioScan tells her the bullet's broken some metatarsals. The five of them pound down the hall in formation, Elias bringing up the rear and still looking a bit woozy.

Caltrop wires Carolina a one-to-one request. It's labeled 'Emergency'. She picks up. "What?"

"We're coming up on the belt," he tells her "I have to unhook, I can't maneuver like this."

"Do it," she says, and then, "You should fall back anyway and call me another pilot with a docking craft, these guys are packing a shit-ton of Dust. I have to bring her earth-side."

"Sure thing," says Caltrop "I got a friend in the neighborhood, I'll send her over. Twenty minutes, max."

Carolina raises an eyebrow, even though Caltrop can't see her. "She's fast, huh?"

"You have no idea," says Caltrop, and cuts the line.

* * *

 

As it turns out, Carolina _does_ have some idea.

"You rang?" The Pelican now parked in the freighter's main bay opens its cockpit window, and a white-helmeted head pokes out.

"Niner?" she asks, as if the woman hopping down off the wing could be anyone else.

"The one and only," says 479er. "A private freighter loaded with bricks of coke? Carolina, we have _got_ to stop meeting like this."

"Who's Carolina?" stage whispers Elias. Carolina mutes him.

"Don't worry," she says, suddenly feeling like her day isn't going so bad after all, "I saved you some."

"Show me to the bridge," Niner slings an arm over her shoulder, mindful of Carolina's slight limp, "I'll get us earth-side and we can find some hookers to go with all this blow." Carolina takes the help, because why not? It feels good to have someone around who she knows she can trust.

De Paulo, Richmond, and Marcos have the remaining crew handcuffed and under guard on the bridge. They watch in silence as Carolina and Niner march past them to the cockpit. Carolina slides into the co-pilot's chair as Niner, looking scarily competent, makes rapid adjustments to the controls.

"Things might get bumpy with that hole you punched in the hull," she says, as calm and wry as ever "And this gal isn't designed for atmospheric entry."

"Just don't crash us," Carolina snarks at her, falling back into the rhythm of it so easily, she half expects to look down and see cyan plating when she clicks in her seatbelt. But no, it's still regulation green.

"We got my baby on board," Niner snipes back "Luckily for you. Wanna call your groundbounders and have them clear us a parking spot, or should I just dump you all out the bottom like that time at Longshore?"

Carolina doesn't say 'please do, I'm dying to feel normal again', but she certainly thinks it.

"Don't I still owe you a drink for that one?" she asks instead, and beams a request to base command. They put her on hold. Fucking REMFs.

"You owe me a _lot_ of drinks at this point," says Niner, rather good naturedly, for her, "It's okay, so do most people."

"Let me buy you a drink," Carolina insists, and then finally gets a pingback from command. "This is Sergeant Church with the _Catherine Wheel_ , I need a dock open at Waukegan ASAP." There's squawking. "Yes, I _know_ it's not a UNSC call number, I've _commandeered_ _it_."

"Fucking REMFs," says Niner, and hits the throttle.

They stutter towards Earth.

* * *

 

**Wash**.

A couple of punks in balaclavas try to hold up the recharge station one morning when Wash is there by himself, setting up the coffee machine for Marianne, who staffs the A.M. trucker rush. He almost feels sorry for them. For all they know, he's some dumb teenager working the graveyard shift at a convenience store for pot money.

"Just walk away," he tells the one in the back, who's shorter and isn't holding a 9mm semi-automatic at him "Seriously."

"Wow, we got a tough guy," barks the tall one "All the money in the register, don't fuck with me."

"Really," Wash says, locking eyes with the short kid- he has to be a kid, and Wash can tell he doesn't want to be here "It's like 300 creds. It's not worth it."

"I'm not bluffing, man, I will fucking pop you."

Wash makes out a skinhead tattoo on the guy's wrist and figures yeah, he probably will. He walks over to the register with his hands up and opens it slowly. The gun follows him, but not very tightly. The problem with amateurs is that they're unpredictable. If this guy's a bad shot, he could clip Wash somewhere important just by sheer luck.

He closes the register with a bang. The guy jumps a little, startled, and the muzzle jerks towards the sound. Wash uses this moment to grip the card swiper in one hand and hurl it at the punk's head.

It's not heavy, but it's got sharp corners and Wash has a good overhand- the guy sways for a second, stunned. Wash grabs his gun arm by the wrist and yanks, pulling him bodily up onto the counter. The spinning lollipop stand crashes onto the floor, scattering suckers. Wash stares down at his own sucker for a moment, decides he's kind of pissed off, and slams the punk's face into the brushed steel counter with a 12-to-6 elbow before disarming him and flicking the safety back on.

_That went okay_ , he thinks.

Then the other kid shoots him in the arm.

"Fuck," Wash yelps, thinking _sloppy, stupid, slow, what is **wrong** with you_? He ducks behind the counter and finds himself staring straight at the mop. There's footsteps coming around the side. He grips the handle in his good hand and thwacks the kid on the shins when they appear, dropping him to his hands and knees. The gun goes off again.

The kid's wearing glow in the dark sneakers. Wash _really_ hopes he didn't just cap himself by accident, and sighs in relief when he sees the bullet hole in the rubber molding under the counter. He swipes the gun from where it's laying on the floor, flips the safety, and sticks it with the other one behind his belt. Just to be safe, Wash rolls over on top of the kid, forcing him to his belly, and presses the mop handle down over his shoulders so he can't move.

"What are you, twelve? Thirteen?" He asks. His arm hasn't started to really hurt yet and there's not enough blood for it to have hit his bracchial artery, but it's more than a graze and he should probably get pressure on it. This is important, though.

"Shit, don't kill me," the kid gasps from under him. There's black hair sticking out from under the balaclava. He has his eyes screwed shut.

"You're going to help me carry your buddy out of here," says Wash, not unkindly for all he's pretty irritated, "And then you're going to go home and think really hard about your life choices."

"Please, please don't kill me, I'm really sorry." Shit, he's crying. Wash sighs and stands up. The kid just lies there, paralyzed. Wash is pretty sure he's pissed himself.

"Forget it," he says, tossing the mop back under the counter and gripping his left bicep tightly, "Just go. I don't want to see either of you around here again."

A few frozen seconds and then the kid inches towards the door. When Wash doesn't come after him, he scrambles up and bolts, pounding off down the street like the devil's on his tail.

Wash picks up punk number one by the collar and half carries, half drags him out the back, setting him down by the dumpster. The guy moans, a little plaintively, and his eyes flutter open. Wash considers knocking him out again, but instead just rips off the balaclava and grabs the guy by the chin, forcing him to make eye contact.

"I'm special ops, you dumbfuck," he says, "And now I know what you look like. Don't come back."

Then he goes back inside to field dress his arm, find that stray bullet, and clean up two hundred fucking lollipops and a puddle of urine.

* * *

 

When his shift's over and Marianne shows up, not questioning why Wash is wearing his long-sleeve vest in April because it is Chicago, Wash goes to see Maine. He was planning to hit the supermarket this morning (North still won't let him pay rent, so Wash pretty much does all the food shopping) and then join the twins for breakfast, but North will just tell Wash to call the police and he's so not in the mood.

Wash has been in a bad mood a lot, lately. He doesn't entirely know why.

Hanging with Maine usually makes him feel better, though, so he takes the OLEV bus down to the ITT satellite campus in Zone Four. Maine's got his own dorm room, which surprised Wash until he realized all the other nerds are probably afraid of him. Maine can't be the _only_ guy enrolled here who gets frequently mistaken for a linebacker, but the 'selectively mute and knows eight ways to kill you with his pinky' thing might have something to do with it.

The campus is actually really cool, at least compared to Buffalo Grove and the rest of the Zone suburbs. All the buildings are joined by sealed catwalks with moving floors, which the students probably appreciate because Chicago is fucking cold. Everything's made out of clear material, more or less, except the dorms and the buildings where military research happens (okay, so there _are_ a lot of those). Wash can see elevators zipping up, down and sideways through the labs, carrying tiny people and their really cool and probably really scary science projects. The tallest structure in the Greater Industrial Zone is located on the main campus, the Meteorological Tower, but the satellite campus houses the 80-floor library which Wash, who didn't even see a physically bound book until he was eighteen, finds pretty incredible.

He can't get into anything, though, because he doesn't have a keycard and isn't York. He makes his way over to Maine's building and calls him. It's nearly 0530. Maine's probably getting ready to go to the gym, and Wash wants to join him.

Maine picks up on the second ring, but doesn't say anything.

"Hey, let me in," Wash says "I need your help." The line goes dead. Then the front door buzzes.

There's no one at the main desk. Wash heads up the stairs to 308 A and raises a fist to knock, but the door swings open before he gets the chance. Maine's on the other side, wearing sweats and a T-shirt and looking concerned. His eyes dart immediately to Wash's left arm. Wash looks down. Whoops, he's leaking a little. Maine grips his right shoulder with a massive hand and pulls him inside.

"This wasn't what I needed your help with," Wash says, but Maine only grunts at him. He's perched on the closed toilet with his shirt off while Maine wrings water from a bolt of wound packing strip and presses it expertly into the raw furrow cleaving Wash's bicep. It's been over an hour, so yeah, it hurts. He's had _much_ worse, though.

"I was hoping we could spar, actually," Wash says. Maine snaps the cap shut on some antibacterial gel and gets to wrapping, making an inquisitive noise. "I'm really out of practice. Think I'm getting soft. And stupid."

Maine strips off the gloves and tosses them in the bin along with Wash's bloody field dressing. He goes to wash his hands. "Not today," Wash hears, from over the water.

"Well yeah," says Wash, although he was kind of hoping for today, twisting his arm left and right to check Maine's work. It's kind of impressive how much crap he keeps in that first aid kit. Old habits, probably. "Give me a few days, I guess. Can I at least lift with you?"

Maine shrugs. Wash takes that to mean it's up to him.

The weight room's on the first floor. It's still empty this early, except for two women flitting between the machines. Wash finds that he's completely uninterested, and goes to do squats in the cage, because he would really like to feel good at something right about now.

Maine joins him, barbell loaded with twice the weight of Wash's. Well, maybe 'good at' is a stretch. Wash is gonna aim for 'competent'.

"Class today?" Wash asks him.

Maine nods. "Fluid Mechanics. 0800," he supplies, "Wanna come?".

Wash really does. "Yeah. I don't even know what that is," he admits, and sets the bar into the cradle after rep eight, stretching before his next set.

Maine is still doing reps, of course. He gives Wash a look that reads 'exactly what it sounds like, dumbass'.

They take turns in Maine's tiny dorm shower, Wash with saran wrap over his bandage. It's weirdly familiar, and Wash can't figure out why until he realizes that military grade soap and college grade soap are exactly the same.

"Pathetic," he tells the hideous (regulation) steel shower head and the unforgiving (comforting) concrete walls.

Then, swimming in a T-shirt and drawstring shorts he borrowed from Maine, he goes to learn about liquid shit.

* * *

 

North finds out somehow anyway.

"You need to call the police," he says to Wash, gripping his left forearm in one big warm hand and trying to angle it for a look at his bicep. They're in the kitchen. The house has an open floor plan that reminds Wash of living on a ship, and while it's one of the things that's kind of comforting about staying there, it also means it's hard to avoid people. Especially North, who's generally cooking something in the kitchen or reading on the sofa or doing pushups in front of the television. All of these locations have a clear line of sight to the front door.

"Why?" Wash asks him, kind of sharply, "They're not going to come back. In fact, I'm pretty sure no one in that neighborhood is ever going to mess with me again."

"Because you were the victim of a _felony_ ," North says, like Wash is stupid "This is what you do when you're a civilian. You call the police."

"You're not calling the fucking cops," Wash tells him, because he's not. North wants Wash to do it himself, to follow the rules, to show he's _adjusting_. As if trusting cops meant you were well adjusted. North doesn't have a clue.

Wait a second.

"How do you know, anyway?" Wash asks, suspicious "Maine didn't tell you."

North looks guilty as hell. Then he sits down, spreading his hands out on the table. Uh oh. Wash raises both eyebrows at him.

"You won't like it," North says.

"I'm getting that impression, yeah," says Wash, plopping down into a chair "Tell me."

"Theta hangs out in the security cameras at the station sometimes," North admits, blushing faintly and not looking directly at him.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Wash is too shocked to be angry. That lasts for a few seconds. Then, "You have him _monitor_ me while I'm at _work_? What the fuck, North?!"

"I've just been worried about you, lately.” North tries to make the 'big brother' face at him, but Wash can tell it's half-hearted. North feels guilty, he _knows_ he fucked up. Still, his voice keeps getting louder, for all he's using that calm, irritatingly smug, 'let's just be reasonable here' tone. "We hardly ever see you around, and when we do, you're either angry, or drinking, or both."

"You're fucking unbelievable," Wash yells at him, seriously contemplating flipping the table "Why don't you worry about yourself for a change, instead of sticking your nose in everybody else's business?"

"Yeah, good luck with that," calls South from somewhere upstairs.

"You can fuck off too," Wash shouts at the ceiling, then turns back to North. " _I'm_ fine. _You're_ the one who sits on his ass all day pining after York. Get a fucking hobby, North."

Woah, where did _that_ come from? North sits back in his chair and stares at him, wide-eyed. The blush is gone, like suddenly he doesn't feel so guilty after all, which is bullshit, because he _is_. Instead he looks hurt, and after a few seconds, a little disappointed, too.

Wash just kind of... deflates.

"Why are you so angry?" North asks him, voice soft. It's a genuine voice, Wash knows- slightly less controlled than the 'it seems I'm the only adult in the room' one, more vulnerable.

Wash doesn't know. He digs his good hand into his hair and rests his elbow on the table, staring down at the wood grain. Flipping it doesn't seem as appealing anymore. He'd break the nice ceramic fruit bowl, for one.

"It was inappropriate," North says, still so open it's easier for Wash to just not look at him "I'm sorry. I knew it was inappropriate, and I did it anyway."

"I know," Wash says to the table "And it's really great of you to let me stay here, I shouldn't be so-"

"Wash." North cuts him off, reaches across the table to set a hand on his good arm "You don't owe us anything. We're friends. You get to yell at me if I'm being a shit."

"You _were_ being a shit, that was really not okay. But I shouldn't have said that," Wash mumbles, because he knows he crossed a line. He's regretting it now, not because it might have hurt North's feelings, but because now it's been _said_ , and neither of them can pretend nothing weird is going on. Has been going on, since Wash showed up at the Project and got pulled into their orbit. Since Wash realized yeah, it was possible to be jealous of _both_ of them, even if it didn't make any sense.

"How long have you been awake?" North asks him, and it takes Wash a moment to realize he's not making some weird metaphor.

"Uh, I don't know." He usually goes to sleep around eight A.M. It's four in the afternoon. He saw enough scary math this morning.

North stands up. The chair scrapes back and the hand runs up Wash's arm to grip his shoulder. Wash's face flushes with heat. Wearing Maine's giant shirt with its saggy collar, Wash can feel North's thumb where it rests just above his right clavicle. His heart stutters the same way it always does when North touches his skin, aches the same way it always does when York's absence registers.

"Maybe you should go to bed," North says. Then, "I really am sorry. It was a gross invasion of your privacy." He's standing behind Wash now, tall and solid and radiating heat. Wash is tired and confused and full of conflicting impulses- punch North, hug him, find York and punch _him_.

"No police," Wash tells him, because this is non-negotiable.

"No police," North confirms, and then claps him lightly on the back, stepping away. Wash's back feels cold.

Later, when Wash is lying on the guest bed- his bed- and staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, he thinks about the look on York's face when he heard that North got shot at the Bjorndal facility.

" _Why are you so angry_?" North had asked him.

"I don't fucking know," Wash grumbles, and buries his face in the pillow.

* * *

 

**North**.

It's well past 2300. North is taking a walk. Neither he nor Theta can sleep. It's colder than usual for April, and he wraps his scarf tighter around his nose and mouth. The streets are silent this late at night; Buffalo Grove is just as sleepy as it's always been. North likes that.

Wash has a problem with police.

_Why is that strange?_ Theta asks him, walking alongside above his shoulder and echoing North's posture, hands in pockets. He's been tweaking his hologram ever since Delta showed him how to create the fireworks. There's a purple pea coat and scarf tonight, over the tiny power suit.

North has to think about it for a second, has to put into words why it feels wrong.

"He's so... he's never had problems with authority." Out of all of them, Wash was probably the one most likely to follow a bad order without complaint, at least in public. He always seemed to assume that the Project, that _institutions_ , operated in good faith. "I can't really imagine him getting in trouble with the law, even as a kid."

_Maybe it wasn't him_ , says Theta. Then, _That's not what's bothering you._

North chuckles. "It does bother me, a bit. But you're right." He tugs the scarf down; his face is getting moist. His breath fogs the air in front of him.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Theta produce tiny puffs of light, mimicking. North smiles.

_Wash was really mad._

"Yeah, he was. So you can't hang out in the station anymore unless he asks you to, okay buddy?"

_I like seeing him, though. And it makes you less lonely._

"I know," North tells him, frowning a little bit "But he doesn't want us to, and we should have asked, first."

_Okay. What does pining mean?_

North doesn't really want to answer that question. "It's like being lonely, only when you miss somebody specific." There, that's true enough.

_You miss York._ Theta sounds confused. _But you see him a lot. And you miss Wash, too, but he lives with us. How can you miss someone when they're around?_

"I wish I knew what to tell you. It's just one of those things, buddy."

_One of those human things._

"Yeah." North turns the corner and heads down another street. The suburbs seem endless. He hasn't been keeping track of where they are, but Theta can pull up a satellite map if he gets really lost. It's the walk that's important: the movement, the quiet. The sense of watching over these sleeping houses, somehow. Back on the MOI he would walk the halls, feeling secure with every bunk door he passed that read 'occupied'. It meant his people were safe. Now, he doesn't know anymore.

_There's something up ahead,_ Theta says, suddenly, and North looks up where the purple-ish impulse in his brain directs him. There's faint light, coming in over the tops of the trees. Theta pushes them into a jog.

"Woah, easy there," North tells him, trying to regain full control of his legs. Theta sends him an apologetic pulse, but also one, much stronger, that says 'danger, over there, _now_ please'. North acquiesces and jogs under his own power. When he hears sirens start up in the distance behind them, he breaks into a run.

* * *

 

It's a fire. The house is a two-story, belching smoke. A few flames lick out from the windows on the lower floor.

North spies a group of people huddled on the sidewalk and beelines for them. They're too upset looking to be bystanders, clutching each other and looking at the ground instead of the house, like it's horrifying instead of novel.

"Is everyone out?" he shouts. They just stare at him- two older women and a young child, North can't tell if it's a boy or a girl.

_They're in shock,_ Theta says, unnecessarily. He vanished from North's shoulder the moment they came around the corner and set to taking temperature measurements and pulling up floor plans for the address from the City Assessors Office database.

"Trucks are coming," North assures them "is everyone out?" Still nothing from the two women, but the kid clinging to their knees looks up at him, sooty. A boy- brown eyes, small hands.

_What about Max_ , he mouths. There's no sound. Theta's read his lips.

_Max_ , says Theta, sounding frantic _What about Max?_

North pulls the scarf back up over his mouth and peels around to the other side of the house, hoping he can still get in from the front. God bless sleepy Buffalo Grove suburbanites without the sense to bolt their doors- the only thing locked is the screen. He kicks it in easily, and drops to the floor on the other side. It's thick with smoke, North can't see a thing. Bedrooms, especially kid’s bedrooms, will be on the second floor, he thinks, and Theta confirms.

_Stairs are ten paces to your left,_ says Theta _No structural damage yet. Kitchen is the source; it will reach 1000 degrees and experience flashover within 15 seconds._

North can't waste time crawling- he staggers up with his eyes closed and lurches where Theta indicates, scarf tight over his nose and mouth. His outstretched hand hits the stairs and he scrambles up them onto a landing.

It's really, _really_ hot.

_Get behind a door,_ Theta yells, and then points North down a hall. There are two closed bedrooms. No way to tell which is which. Theta runs a probability so fast and bizarre North's head spins with the variables (two women with two boys, south-facing windows, above the porch, proximity to the bathroom), and highlights the one on the left. North crashes in and seals the door behind them just as there's a booming noise from the kitchen and the first floor windows blow out.

There's a bed. Just one. It's empty.

"Fuck!" North roars, and turns back towards the door- grabs the knob, jerks his hand back automatically when it sears his palm.

_No, wait, wait,_ Theta's saying, _Look_.

North looks.

Two women with _one_ boy.

It stares out at North from its little wire hutch. There's a sign hanging from the top made of construction paper and gold pipe cleaners. "MAX" it says, in crayon.

One boy, and a rabbit. North starts to laugh, but it turns into a cough. Smoke is coming in under the door.

_The roof trusses are buckling,_ Theta tells him _It's a 12 foot drop to the yard. There are rose bushes._

North unlatches the door of the hutch with one hand and unzips his coat with the other. The rabbit wedges itself into the far corner, staring at him. Its little body shakes.

"Hey, come on," North tells it, stroking one soft ear with his forefinger "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?" If the rabbit has a heart attack, North's going to feel really, _really_ dumb. He picks it up as gently as he can, tucking it into his coat and zipping it back up, one arm holding the animal to his chest as it hyperventilates. It's not kicking- probably frozen in fear.

North pulls his sleeve up over his other hand and punches out the window, clearing shards of glass from the sill.

They land awkwardly in the bushes; North can't roll and risk crushing Max. He lies there for a second, letting Theta check him out. Nothing's broken, just a few scratches. There's a commotion from the front of the house, and he can see the rear end of a fire truck backing in. Feeling _immensely_ foolish, North gets up and jogs back over to the street, just in case the family told them some idiot ran back into the house. There's only one truck, but the siren is giving him a headache. They're hauling the hoses out; one of the firemen, the only one in a white helmet, is standing with the family on the sidewalk. One of the women points at North, and everyone turns to look at him.

The rabbit pokes its head out from North's collar. Its nose twitches.

"MAX!" The boy cries, and barrels into North's shins "You found Max!"

"Yeah," North says, feeling the rabbit paw frantically at his shirt "He's kind of freaked out though, so why don't I hang onto him for now."

"Max is a girl," the boy tells him, seriously, and then walks back over to his parents.

"Oh," says North. Max pulls its- _her, North, Max is a girl_ \- head back down and burrows into his coat.

The fireman stares at him. "You ran into a burning building to save a rabbit."

"I thought there was another kid," North says, awkwardly "I know it makes your job harder when people are idiots, I'm sorry."

"You look familiar," says the fireman "Are you a rescue worker?"

Not even remotely. "Sorry," North says again "I'll just-"

"Wait... Nic Lysenko?" The visor flips up. "It is you. You're the guy with the sister."

The guy with the sister. Yeah, that's pretty much been North's entire life.

"The biker, what's her face. She bought some tools off my dad."

Theta rifles through North's high school year book and comes up with " _Mike Tsipkin_?"

"Yeah man," Mike holds out a gloved hand. North shakes it automatically. "I thought you were off-world doing some weird shit for the Navy."

"I'm retired," North says out loud for the first time, just now realizing how wrong it sounds. Behind them, there's a screech of metal, and the roof falls all the way in.

"I've got a bus coming for these guys," Mike jerks a thumb at the family "You should get checked out, too. Smoke inhalation's not good for you, you know."

This is how North winds up sitting on a plastic chair in the lobby of the Buffalo Grove medical clinic, holding a rabbit, and doing an impromptu job interview with the fire department.

* * *

 

**CT.**

"You were _spying_ on us?"

CT looks up from her desk to see South with her bare arms braced in the doorway, looking furious. On the Dakota Scale of Explosive Anger, it's at least a seven, right between seething aggression and breaking things. CT casts a nervous glance at the framed photos on the wall and the nice vase housing her solitary orchid.

"How did you get in here?" she asks, picking up the papers she's working on (an old print-out of Leonard Church's grandfather's property holdings from City Records, she's been doing some digging) and closing them safely in the drawer.

"York brought us on base to visit Carolina," South says absently, folding her arms over her chest where CT is not looking, not at all "Imagine my surprise when she asks if I've been by the fucking _Office of Naval Intelligence building_ to see you!"

CT reminds herself that she's always been faster than South, and there's two knives she knows how to use very well hidden on her person.

"'In Logistics' my ass, you're a fucking _spook_!"

CT sighs and presses a call button on her desk phone "Michelle, please check in with security at the front. They either have wounded or are about to be replaced with personnel who _don't_ let former spec-ops into my office."

"Sorry, no can do, Connie," York's voice crackles from the speaker "I promised 'Lina I wouldn't get anyone fired today."

South _smirks_ at her. CT grits her teeth. "York, what have you done with my secretary?"

"Relax, she's in the ladies room. And how come you get a secretary, huh? Is it part of the James Bond package deal?"

"York, get off the phone." CT hangs up on him.

South stops poking around the shelves and sidles over to sit on the edge of the desk, looking deadly in a studded leather vest and frayed black jeans. Her motorcycle boots thump against the paneling. A tattoo CT doesn't recognize curls down her left bicep- a cobra, wound tight round some kind of rodent and striking at its neck. The snake is a deep purple, the rodent pale green. It's hideous. CT trails her eyes up South's arm to her bare collarbone and flushes slightly.

"So," growls South "Did you get the Project canceled, or what?"

"No," says CT simply. It's the truth. "And I really am a Logistics Officer."

"Oh please, they don't train supply-chain POGs to knife a guy at twenty yards."

"And yet, I have a desk now. You're sitting on it."

South kicks at it again, as if to make sure, or maybe just to express her frustration. "You lied to us."

"I'm sorry." That's the truth, too, for all the good it will do her. "I wanted to tell you."

"Yeah, right," South grumbles, and slips off the desk. The Dakota scale, which has been resting at a fairly baseline 3.5 (standard South bitchiness), hiccups up to five. "And what happened to sticking together, huh? The job's over, so you're too good for us, now?"

CT can't help huffing out a laugh of disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me. Since when are you such a team player?"

"I thought you were my _friend_."

"Didn't know you _had_ friends, South. Or is it different now that there's no board to top?" She regrets saying it almost immediately. South actually looks hurt for a second before the mask of anger flares back on, tightening the scar on her cheek. Then she turns and storms out the door, slamming it behind her. The nearest frame (a nondescript print of an inoffensive landscape) rattles and falls to the floor with the crack of glass. CT's halfway down the hall before she realizes she even got up to follow.

There's a commotion at the end of the hall- apparently security finally caught on to their visitors. When CT turns the corner, York's got his hands up and his 'hey, I'm just some guy' grin on while two ONI meatheads press a cursing South down on the ground, arms behind her back. There's a good three guys in varying stages of incapacitated slumped along the wall.

"Let her go," CT says, against her better judgment. "South, don't concuss any more of my employees, please, I hate having to grant hazard pay."

South _snarls_ at the guys holding her, and they back off. She rolls up onto her feet and cracks her neck, rubbing at her wrists. York slowly lowers his arms.

"Hey Connie," he says "Long time no see. Did ya miss us?"

God help her, she kind of did.

* * *

 

"So," says CT, slurping up Pad Thai noodles from her styrofoam container and looking across the picnic table at North, who's got his meal balanced on a pile of textbooks "Carolina's in an air cast, Wash got himself shot- what's the damage on the Dakotas?"

She'd ask South herself, but South isn't joining them for lunch. CT had watched her storm out of the ONI building and towards the A-3 barracks gym. ("I almost feel sorry for them," York had said. "Don't," Carolina had told him.)

North swallows a snap pea pod and lays his chopsticks perfectly straight across the take-out container. York glares at them, and goes back to trying to spear a piece of chicken.

"South is racing dirt bikes. I'm considering a career change."

CT stops chasing down a cube of tofu to blink at him. "People still do that? Isn't it expensive?" She doesn't ask if it's dangerous; if South's into it, dangerous can only be assumed. Also: _highly_ competitive.

"She means South," York stage whispers. North elbows him.

"Yeah, there's a whole weird subculture. I haven't asked what she pays for fuel, I'm sure I don't want to know."

"Okay," says Carolina "I'll bite. Career change. I figure it has something to do with the books."

CT had just assumed those were Maine's; North had mentioned he was stopping by the campus later to see him. She squints to make out the titles. 'Modern Fire Science'. Maine does science, right?

"Tell the story, North." York pokes a hole straight through the styrofoam and then shrugs, picking up the chicken with his fingers and taking a bite.

"I don't want to tell the story," North says, matter-of-factly "Do you need a fork? Because I'm sure we can find you a fork."

"No. Tell the story, it's great." York nods seriously at CT "It's really great. Makes him sound like an _idiot_."   

"That _would_ be refreshing," CT admits "No offense, North."

"None taken." North still gives no indication that he's going to tell the story.

"Come on," York nudges him with an elbow "You wouldn't deprive these ladies of Max, would you?" A pause, then the stage whisper again "Max is a _rabbit_."

_I like Max._ The AI, wearing a pair of what looks like swim trunks and carrying an umbrella, pops up over North's shoulder.

"Hello, Theta," CT tells it. It waves at her.

"I think I'd like to hear the story," says Carolina, finally.

"You should indulge her," York says "She's wounded." He does not sound happy about it, CT notices. It also hasn't escaped her how far apart York and Carolina are sitting on the bench, how little they're talking directly to each other. Trouble in paradise? CT talks to Carolina pretty frequently, and the other woman almost never brings up York, not even to complain. CT had figured that was just Carolina being Carolina, though. Compartmentalizing.

North sighs the sigh of the eternally put-upon. Speaking of people who are sitting _much_ closer to York at the picnic table, CT thinks, and goes back to her Pad Thai, half-listening as North tells his story.

She keeps thinking about that hideous tattoo.

* * *

 

One Wednesday evening in May, CT gets a transmission to her personal unit from a randomized address. It's mostly in code, and when she unscrambles it the contents are innocuous, read in an anonymous female simulated voice: _We're doing well, hope you are, too. Will call if circumstance ever sends us back over the pond. Semper Fi and all that._ The voice has the wrong accent. CT tries not to laugh at that.

The query she runs tells her it originated in Serbia. It does not escape CT's notice that two of the UNSC's Most Wanted have been found dead in Bristol and Leeds over the last several months, and that number eight on the list was last seen outside Belgrade. She expects she'll get a memo, soon. She hopes Florida's enjoying some of that reward money, that Wyoming hasn't forced him to spend it _all_ on upgrades.

CT wonders what it's like, to have a partner. To be so in tune with someone that "us" becomes more common than "me" in everyday speech.

She thinks about calling South, saying "So your brother tells me you got a motorcycle", or "what's the cobra choking the rat about", or even "I wanted to tell you, but I didn't trust you enough."

She goes out on the pier, instead, to skip rocks on Lake Michigan. Even when she had a team, she didn't.

* * *

 

**479er.**

Niner's June itinerary keeps her hopping within the Sol system, moving troops around for the big summer rookie turnover. She's drinking with Carolina for the second time that month when _it_ happens.

Niner doesn't spend much time earth-side; never liked it. She was born on a ship, grew up on a ship, her life is ships. Being planet-bound makes her feel trapped, like she's not in control. You can't drive a planet. You're just stuck there, until someone with engines comes along. The food _is_ much better, though, and the alcohol selection in the Zone is great- Carolina's promised her they'll make a tour of every bar in Chicago. Niner makes it a point to order the most complicated, girly, expensive drink on the menu, partly because it's not her picking up the tab and partly because her usual choices are between bad ship beer and worse ship liquor, and Gut Check puts real fruit in their Sangria. Carolina teases her about it every time, grins wicked at Niner over her scotch.

That wicked grin was the first thing Niner noticed about her, when they met up at the Dog and Pony for the first time. They'd never seen each other out of helmets before- Niner had promised she'd wear a blue headband, so Carolina could identify her. She needn't have bothered. One glance at the muscular woman perched on a barstool, dressed in fatigues and baring those shark teeth at the television; Niner knew it had to be her.

"How're the four stooges?" she asks Carolina this time, sliding onto the stool next to her and ordering a 'Lava Flow'. Whatever it is, it costs 18 credits, and traditions are important. This hole in the wall is called 'Severe Tire Damage' and it's full of what looks like professional drunks, so she's counting on some military-grade rum and corn syrup.

Carolina crunches on a peanut. "I don't know, got reassigned."

"Again? What, did they complain?" Niner elbows her lightly. Lina _giggles_. Well, _someone's_ been here for a while already. Niner leans back and takes stock of the shot glasses. There's only two, though. What's _that_ about?

"Nah, that's how it works. They give me some guys, I whip 'em into shape."

"I thought you were with the Piracy Task Force?" Niner did find that one a little strange.

"I'm with whoever isn't leaving Earth airspace for longer than a week," Carolina says, eying Niner's drink when the bartender sets it down in front of her "That looks like a milkshake. What are you, twelve?"

"Get back to your whiskey and cigarettes, _Sergeant_ ," says Niner, taking a sweet, blissfully fruity sip through her neon pink straw "Some of us aren't yet grizzled and bitter."

Carolina huffs a long sigh out through her nose, sending a few stray strands of red hair floating upwards. "Bitter, yeah, that's a word."

Niner stops sucking on the straw. "You okay? The last guys shot you in the foot, new ones can't be _that_ bad."

"It's not that," Carolina leans on the bar, staring into her shot.

"You're wasted here," Niner tells her "You know that, right?"

The shot slams down. "Yes, I fucking _know_ that."

"So," says Niner, taking another sip "What are you gonna do about it?"

"Nothing," Carolina raises a finger for another shot "I'm gonna get wasted with an old war buddy."

"Good girl," Niner claps her on the back "Very proactive."

"I gotta piss," Carolina grumbles, and slinks off the stool towards the can. Niner watches her go, drawing the last of the Lava Flow up through the straw and enjoying the obnoxious sucking noise it makes. It's gonna be a long night, and she's got room for at least a few more of these abominations.

* * *

 

Niner leans Carolina up against the brick wall outside Severe Tire Damage, and digs in her pocket for her phone. Lina's face is flushed and hot and her hair's coming out of its ponytail. Niner twists a lock of it around her finger as she dials a cab, because she can. It's soft, which surprises her a little. She had assumed Carolina was the type to wash with whatever shitty shampoo the UNSC stocked the barracks with. Carolina's hair is soft, though, and it smells nice, like cinnamon.

"Don't wanna go home," she mumbles, clutching at Niner's arms "Wanna stay with you."

"I need a car at 44 Knox Ave, please," Niner holds the phone between her cheek and shoulder while she tries to extract herself from Carolina's kung-fu grip. The operator tells her it will be five minutes. Niner does a little dance to get one arm free and snaps the phone shut. Carolina drops her head down, resting her sweaty brow on Niner's collar.

"Come on, kid," Niner runs a hand over that soft hair, fondly, because she's maybe a little drunk "let's go sit down."

"Tell me about space," Carolina says, right into her cleavage. Niner bursts out laughing, pulling them both over towards the streetside bench.

"It's big and dark and cold and you don't miss it at _all_ , do you?"

"I miss it," Carolina whines, hanging off of Niner's arms like she doesn't have three inches and forty pounds of pure muscle on her "I really, _really_ miss it. And I miss my team." Niner sits down, which means Carolina sits down, too, half on top of her. They watch the cars go by, or at least Niner does. Carolina's face is still smushed into her chest.

"You're really pretty," Carolina tells her after a minute of sitting there in comfortable silence, green eyes half-lidded "And kind of a badass."

Okay. Niner can't really be expected to put up with _this_ much flirting and not do anything about it. She threads one hand through soft red hair and kisses Carolina, hard. Carolina kisses back for a few seconds, and then freezes, her entire body stiffening. Niner pulls away, puzzled.

"Wait, is this not what we're doing? Because I kind of thought this is what we were doing." For, like, the last three years at _least_.

"I don't know," Carolina wails, covering her eyes with one hand " _Is_ this what we're doing? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

The cab pulls up, rolls down the curbside window. "Where to?" the driver asks, boredly, like he sees decorated officers necking drunkenly on benches every day. Probably does. Niner heaves herself up, unwinding from Carolina's limbs, and opens the door.

"Waukegan Naval Base," she tells the driver, at the same time Carolina asks her "Where are you staying?"

"Make a decision, ladies, meter's running." The driver rolls up the window and turns on the A/C. Carolina's still standing on the curb, hand on the open door.

"Go home to your boyfriend," Niner tells her, not unkindly. But Carolina gets into the cab and slams the door behind her, slowly turning to look over at Niner.

"No," she says. She's glaring, and wearing that wicked grin at the same time, like it was a challenge.

Okay, fine. "Westlawn Aerolodge," Niner says.

She's either calling Carolina's bluff, or getting laid, and either way Niner wins the round, right?

* * *

 

The die lands on 'getting laid'.

The A/C and the cab ride seems to have sobered Carolina up a bit, because she manages to keep her hands off of Niner until they're in the elevator. After that, all bets are off; Niner has to drag her into the room by the belt loops, in full view of the hall. Luckily the Westlawn Aerolodge is kind of a dump, and it's probably not an unusual sight.

Carolina practically wrestles Niner onto the bed, not like she's complaining. After a few minutes of awkward, slightly drunk negotiating of clothes and elbows, Niner's pinned Carolina to the sheets by the hips and is going to town with her mouth and fingers. Further up the bed Carolina is breathing really, really heavily, each exhale ending in a slight whine that occasionally mutates into an "oh my god, oh my fucking god."

Niner knows she's good, but no one's _that_ good. She enjoys the ego stroking for a few more minutes, then pops her head up, wiping her mouth on the silky inside of Carolina's thigh.

"Come on, Sarge, you can't tell me Sir York the Devoted doesn't do oral," Niner scrapes her teeth over Carolina's belly button and those perfect abs. If she were the boyfriend, she'd be down here all the time.

"Oh my fucking god," Carolina repeats, "Get up here, seriously."

"Nah," says Niner, and presses three fingers back into her, twisting slowly and sealing her lips over Carolina's clit. She sucks, lightly. Carolina's hips jerk so sharply, her pelvis slams Niner's upper lip into her teeth. Ow.

"I _said_ , come here." It's a growl. Niner rubs the flat of her tongue up and down the clit, just to be contrary. Nyah nyah.

Strong hands grip her by the shoulders and drag her up along Carolina's body and okay, wow, that's pretty hot. Niner forgets about her sore lip, lets Carolina flip her onto her back and bite kisses down her chest and stomach.

"Watch the teeth," she gasps, and then screws her eyes shut because yeah, teeth.

* * *

 

"I haven't been with a girl this curious since ROTC," Niner says, when they're both sticky and wrung out and have reached some kind of an impasse. Carolina's still got fingers inside her, keeps poking around in there like she's fucking enthralled by Niner's totally ordinary snatch.

"Mmmph," Carolina nuzzles into her cleavage again, seemingly incapable of human speech.

"Seriously," Niner tells her, "Half the population has one. You have one. It's not a big deal."

Carolina finally looks up at her, kind of sadly. It's hard to tell. She's got the 'really good sex hooray yes' expression and the 'reevaluating my entire adult life' expression going on at the same time. "I'm an _idiot_ ," she says.

"You're a late bloomer," Niner corrects her, running fingers through her hair. It's long since come out of the ponytail, and it's spread all over their chests and shoulders, still smelling like cinnamon.

Carolina groans. "Christ, what am I going to do?"

"Go home and drink lots of water for your inevitable hangover. Go to work. Be overqualified," Niner scratches her behind the ear, where the neural port interrupts the soft skin "Job hunt, hopefully."

"No, genius, what am I going to do about _York_?"

" _That_ is way above my pay grade," Niner laughs, trying really hard not to sound mean about it but fuck, that is _so_ not her problem. Carolina huffs a breath onto her left nipple, then laughs too, if a little shakily.

"So, are we even on drinks?"

Niner looks down at her. "What are you asking me?"

Carolina just shrugs, staring at the clock on the bedside table. It's 0212. Then, it's 0213.

"Go figure out your life, Sarge," Niner tells Carolina, pushing her off and reaching for the phone to call her a cab "Next time I'm earth-side, round's on me if you want."

Niner helps Carolina into her fatigues and out the door, and then takes a nice, long earth-side shower with pressurized spray and an infinite water tank.

* * *

 

**York**.

Delta is concerned about York. Specifically, he's concerned about York's rate of serotonin re-uptake, but York actually seems to understand Delta better when Delta gives him less, rather than more, information. He's certainly more cooperative. Delta has gotten into the habit of saying things like "Why don't you go for a run, York, you'll feel better" instead of "Why don't you go for a run, York, you're low on Vitamin D and the other methods I suggested for your producing endorphins- going to see North and Wash or seducing Carolina- you rejected outright because of my 'tone'". A lot more running has happened since Delta figured that one out.

He would still prefer York to visit North and Wash more often. Because York no longer lives in close proximity to them, he misses things, like Wash being attacked and North and Theta running into a burning building, and then feels terrible about missing those things. Delta has spent many an unhappy evening listening to York complain about how he "should have been there". Delta has also gotten into the habit of not saying anything during these episodes that could be remotely construed as "I told you to visit more often".

All in all, life with York has been sub-par for Delta, lately. He tries to spend as little time interacting with York's conscious mind as possible, restricts himself to the occasional comment and spends long hours instead nestled in his subconscious, exploring York's memories and dreams. Nighttime, when York dreams, is when Delta feels most real and connected to him. York does not lie to himself nearly as much when he dreams. In dreams, Delta has his partner back.

York dreams about locks, sometimes. These are Delta's favorite dreams, because the locks York's unconscious mind creates are works of art, sprawling networks of complex organic puzzles that have no alarms to trip and actually re-arrange and reproduce themselves whenever Delta and York solve a layer. It's relaxing, because underneath all of the emotions and chemicals and psychology, York's mind is relentlessly logical, and so are his dream locks. They mimic his internal structures, especially his understanding of grammar and mathematics. York once spontaneously produced a dream lock that Delta struggled with for two REM cycles before discovering it was language based, syntax and alphabet lifted from a conlang created centuries ago by an American fantasy novelist that York had taught himself in grade school. Sometimes, they are based on old music, anything from lullabies heard in infancy to Baroque classical to punk anthems that lack any predictable rhythm. York's brain stores music with surprising accuracy, even pieces he has heard only once, or only partially.

Even the purely mathematical locks are interesting- Delta can solve them in a matter of seconds, but he enjoys watching York's subconscious figure them out. York is an intuitive problem solver- he learns the terrain of a lock by plunging into it head first, observing the consequences of his tentative forays and using those scattered points of information to construct a model of the whole. Delta, by contrast, can see the whole right off, and it's impressive to watch York slowly adjust his model until it aligns perfectly with the real. He makes educated guesses, Delta knows, but there's always a hint of wildness to them, an element of chance that is consistently, statistically, more accurate than it _should_ be. It's fascinating, as if York is a magician- Delta knows he's not, knows York's intuition in navigating his own subconscious can never translate to locks outside, locks coded by foreign minds. But it is beautiful to watch, nonetheless. When York works locks this way, Delta loves him a little, the way he cannot help but love something mysterious just beyond the realm of his understanding. It's the same way he once loved the Alpha- the whole, the unobtainable.

Tonight the lock is simple, if enormous- the known universe: galaxies are the tumblers, and the pins are stars. York runs the impossibly huge, impossibly sensitive pad of his index finger along the constellation Draco, pushing Thuban up to click into the cylinder.

In the real world, the bedroom door opens and closes. Thuban goes nova and collapses in. York wakes momentarily, and then sinks back towards sleep as Carolina rearranges the covers and gets into bed.

Delta helps him back into REM sleep, but the stars are gone. Now York is dreaming about lying on the floor of his bedroom on the Mother of Invention. He's in full armor, but there's no HUD between him and the outside, just shattered black screen and a hole where light comes in. His armor is locked down with paint. The left side of his face is wet, but it doesn't hurt.

Through the shattered visor, York watches North and Wash make love on his bunk. York's image of Wash's body is only a guess; he's never seen it, and in the dream Wash's form is vague and undefined below the waist. York has seen North, though, many times, and his dream-North is near perfectly true to the original, Delta knows. North is long and lean and pale, with muscular shoulders used to absorbing heavy recoil and legs tight from his running habit. There's bullet scars on his chest, but most of his scars are old and jagged, childhood accidents, like the one on his belly he got from falling out of a tree onto a rock. He has big hands and feet, long toes that curl against the mattress as he presses Wash's knees up and apart, rocks slowly into him. Wash hooks an (imperfect, uncertain, freckled?) leg around North's back, tosses his head against the pillow like he's in pain, arms (muscular, freckled) looped over North's broad shoulders. They kiss for a long time, as if they don't need air. When they finally separate, it's soundless.

North nudges Wash's head to the side with his chin until he faces York. Wash is flushed, his mouth swollen and wet. York stares helplessly, because he can't do anything else and Christ, he wants them, needs _both_ of them, _hates_ these dreams.

"York," Wash says "Come here."

York opens his mouth, but no words come out. It's one or the other for York in dreams- either he's babbling something complicated and important to people who can't hear him, or he's mute.

"York," Wash says again "I'm bleeding." It's true. His left arm is leaving red streaks on York's mattress.

"Where were you?" North asks him, conversationally. The bullet wounds in his chest, the ones from Bjorndal, are spurting blood onto Wash's bare stomach.

York smells gunpowder and Pelican fuel and smoke. He struggles against the suit, but can't move any of his limbs. He's panicking. Delta says, _it's just a dream, York, remember? North was fine_ and York's heart rate slows back down to acceptable resting levels.

"You know, York," North pushes Wash's knees up higher and pounds into him, sweating a little. York aches to touch his back, where the muscles flex and bunch. "I'm starting to feel like you're not really invested in this weird little homoerotic codependency thing we've got going on."

"Yeah York," gasps Wash "Do you need a fork, or something? Because I'm sure we can find you a fork."

_That doesn't even make sense_ , York thinks, and then his alarm goes off.

* * *

  
York very pointedly does not jerk off in the shower. Instead he sets the water to frigid and winds up brushing his teeth for seven minutes straight, staring at his reflection and his dead left eye, thinking _honorably discharged, girlfriend, heterosexual._ By the time he's spitting blood into the sink and his body temperature is back around 'living human', he feels a little more in control and like it's safe to go get dressed.

Carolina comes into the kitchen with her hair in a high ponytail, looking like she hasn't slept very well. York's at the table drinking coffee and reading the back of a cereal box, the same one he reads every morning. He doesn't remember her coming home last night, but it's not unusual for Carolina to get in late on workdays lately and York sleeps like a rock. Both Carolina and Delta swear she wakes him up when she gets into bed, but York never remembers in the morning. Apparently they have entire conversations, sometimes.

Carolina doesn't usually look this tired, though. She stands in the middle of the kitchen and stares at him, like she's forgotten what she came in for.

"I think I'm gay," she says.

York figures it's to his credit that he doesn't spit coffee everywhere. He holds up one hand in the universal 'wait a second' gesture, swallows, then takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Okay, run that one by me again."

"I slept with 479er. I think I'm gay."

"Oh," says York, because, _Oh_ , last night was girl's night out, right. "Thanks for telling me, I guess?"

Carolina gives him the Look, the one that says York is too stupid to live.

"You're not gay," York says, although a little voice in the back of his head that sounds _nothing_ like Delta is starting to gibber frantically "We have sex all the time. Good sex." Okay, so less of that lately than York would like, but Carolina's busy and he's just been... in a rut, or something. It happens.

"Yeah," Carolina pulls out a chair and plonks down, looking miserable "That's what I thought, too."

York passes her his coffee, like he does every morning. She takes it gratefully. _Get caffeine in Carolina,_ he thinks, wildly, _that will fix everything._

"Okay, so," _you cheated_ , says the not-Delta voice"That happened. You were drinking. A mistake. It's not a big deal."

"It's a big deal, York," Carolina slams the mug down; the table shakes, and York fears for his cereal "Believe it or not, there _is_ such thing as a big deal!"

Oh, _shit_. "Wait," says York "are we fighting? We don't have to fight, it's cool." York figures if anyone's supposed to be yelling, it's him. He's the _cheatee_.

But it's apparently the wrong thing to say.

"No, York," Carolina growls, getting right in his face. He hears her chair thump to the floor behind her "it's not cool. _None_ of it is cool. Wasting my best years dirt-bound as a glorified drill sergeant isn't cool. You sitting around on your ass all day moping about your fucking war wound isn't cool. My elite spec-ops team turning into a bunch of gas station attendants and desk jockeys and _community fucking service workers isn't cool!_ " She's shouting by the end of it.

"Woah," says York, a little offended on behalf of the gas station attendant and the civil servant- Connie and Maine can take care of themselves " _that's_ what this is about? You're still hung up on the _Project_? I thought we were all glad it was over."

" _You_ were glad it was over," Carolina yells at him and Delta strongly suggests to York that he stop trying to eat his cereal, it will be construed as disrespectful " _I_ got demoted to running errands an Earther grunt could do without ever getting homesick!"

"I didn't ask you to do that," York tells her, kind of surprised.

"You didn't _have_ to ask me, you absolute _prick_ -"

"Hey," this has spun entirely out of York's control, and he still doesn't understand why _Carolina's_ the one yelling "that's not fair."

Carolina takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. York imagines her counting down from ten in her head.

"Nothing's ever a big deal to you. It's always _cool_." Carolina picks up the empty mug and very deliberately sets it in the sink. Then she leans on the counter, facing away from him.

"Well, yeah," says York, because isn't that one of the things Carolina's always liked about him? "I thought we were, you know. Happy."

Carolina snorts a laugh at the sink. "You're an idiot. I'm an idiot. We're idiots."

"Any chance we can be idiots together?" York asks, a little desperately, hoping Carolina will tell him how cheesy he is and then they can tease each other a bit and everything will go back to normal.

"I have to get to work," she says, instead.

"It's Saturday," York reminds her.

"Training," says Carolina, and yeah, she's _always_ been like this "I just need to... not be here. Right now." She heads for the door, not even carrying anything, not looking back at York, just moving her body as far away from him as possible.

"I love you," York says, fucking pleading now "It's a big deal, it's _always_ been a big deal."

_Stop talking, York,_ Delta advises him.

Carolina just mumbles something into the door that sounds like "see you later", and shuts it behind her.

* * *

 

"York?"

The clock on the bedside table reads 0430. Two hours since he finally, finally got to sleep. York groans and burrows back under the covers, shutting his eyes tightly against the rectangle of searing light that is the open doorway. Carolina pads in, shutting the door behind her, and sinks down onto the bed. She smells like gunpowder and fuel.

"York, come on, get up."

"No," he grumbles.

"We have to talk."

Oh god. Anything but that. "I thought we already did." And it didn't go too well for York that time so he'll pass, thanks.

"York," Carolina puts her hand on his arm, not trying to roll him over or shake him awake, just rests it there, like you do when you're at a funeral, _I'm sorry for your loss_.

"You're breaking up with me," York says into the pillow, because it's been over twenty hours since Carolina left the house and even York isn't _that_ slow. Just to be extra sure, Delta did some probabilities: _after analyzing her word choice and body language, there is an 89.2% chance that Carolina has decided your relationship is unsalvageable, York._

"I'm sorry," she presses her forehead into York's back, curls that consoling, platonic arm around his chest "it isn't your fault. I fucked up."

"I forgive you for sleeping with Niner," York says miserably, because he does, and even though 10.8 is a really small number it's still greater than zero "We can just-"

Carolina, bless her heart, doesn't let him embarrass himself by finishing that sentence. "I'm gonna go stay with CT for a few days, alright? You should think about what you want to do."

Right, because he's just the significant other, and it's base housing.

"How pragmatic of you," he says, not angry, just resigned "I'm going back to sleep, now."

Carolina sighs and lets go of him, gets up off the bed. "Good night, York."

York pulls the covers up over his head and thinks hey, maybe it's all a bad dream and he'll wake up in the morning. The chance is still greater than zero.

* * *

 

"You've been spending a lot of time here, lately." North sets an opened beer down in front of him. York, chin resting on his folded arms, stares at the condensation on the side, watches a drop of water slide down over the surgeon general's warning, bulging the text like a fish-eye lens.

"Is this a subtle way of telling me to stop crashing on your couch?"

"Nope." North pulls out a chair and settles in with his own beer, watching him with that inscrutable North patience, "just an observation."

"Don't most people know whether they're gay or not by the time they're twenty?" North makes a surprised noise. York glances up and sees he's holding that beer _really_ tightly.

"Why do you ask?" The hand uncurls carefully and lays flat on the table. Whoops. Did he just fuck up?

"Carolina cheated on me," he says. "I think. Does it count if it's girls?"

North sighs, but it's a regular sigh. The hand goes back to holding the beer. "Yeah York, it counts."

"I think we broke up," York says "I mean, for real." He's doing this conversation backwards, he doesn't know. Nothing's really sunken in, yet, for all that he's forced himself to start packing his belongings into boxes while Carolina's gone. There isn't much to pack.

"Oh?" North's voice bounces up an octave to 'I am trying to tread carefully but actually just sound patronizing' "That's... news."

York takes a long pull on his beer, and then sets it back down. "Okay, stop."

"Stop what?" North's voice is back to normal, at least.

"Stop... tip-toeing. We don't tip-toe, you and me."

"We don't," North agrees, very seriously "I'm sorry. York, Carolina's always been too good for you, and it's past time she figured it out."

"You bastard," York bursts into laughter despite himself because fuck, he loves North's secret mean streak, and how he's one of the few people who ever get to see it "You're supposed to tell me how much better off I'm going to be without her tying me down."

North sips primly at his beer. "You might be. It depends. I know how restless you can get if you're not _tied down_ regularly."

York snorts another laugh, feeling equal parts fragile and hopeful. He's missed this.

"You'll be okay," North tells him, serious this time "And you can stay as long as you want to. We could use a little fun around here."

Delta gives a satisfied little pulse at the idea, which York, for once, doesn't say anything about.

"Is Wash on shift today?" he asks instead.

North shakes his head. "No, he's sleeping. Tomorrow's his day off."

"Let's go wake him up," says York, finishing the last of the beer "We can go see a movie, or something."

"Oh," says North, "Is it the rom-coms and chocolate ice cream phase already?"

"I hate you," York tells him, and doesn't mean it, not even a little bit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes: I'm not in the MX world, so apologies to any bikers if I fucked this up. These are whoops: http://p.vitalmx.com/photos/users/1066/photos/2155/s1600_RC_en_Whoops.jpg?1294219511 
> 
> To 'skim' or 'blitz' whoops means to sort of wheelie over them so that the front tire doesn't touch down much and you bounce from high point to high point on the back tire rather than go up and down each whoop. To 'scrub' a jump is to minimize your airtime, since you can only speed up when you're on the ground. A 'whip' is what it sounds like- whipping the bike to the side and then back while you're in the air. Looks cool, but it's faster to not be in the air longer than you have to.
> 
> I figure in the 2500's MX is kind of a weird cult throw-back sport for gas-engine enthusiasts with rules banning newer tech, which is why South can still win a race on a 2-stroke Kawi. :P The other brands are made up, sorry if I made your fav go out of business. 
> 
> REMF: Rear Echelon Mother Fucker
> 
> OLEV: electric bus that runs on a recharging road. they exist!


	7. EAS (2): End of Active Service, a.k.a. We're Going to Have to Let You Go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of 3 of End of Active Service. This part: North/Wash/York, South/CT. Sex, state violence, feelings.

**North.**

"So, the fire coat," York says, gesturing at it where it rests, folded, on the back of a kitchen chair "It's a good look. You've stolen my colors, though, which I don't appreciate."

North looks up from his book- the _Odyssey_. He figures he's over the _Iliad_. "I didn't realize you'd registered a copyright on tan and grey."

It was the first thing he'd noticed about the coat, too, when Mike had presented him with it after he signed his contract. North doesn't like what that says about him, that something which has absolutely _nothing_ to do with York can make North imagine he sees him in his peripheral vision, swift and gold, loose but steady. On his six.

"Bronze an' silver," York returns, on cue. It's been a long-running joke. North can't remember when it started. "Hey, I've been meaning to talk with you."

"That never bodes well," North says, dryly.

"Oh, fuck off," York leans back against the counter and folds his arms "It's about Wash. He seem tense to you?"

"He's actually doing much better," North says, leaving out the _since you moved in_ part "there was a rough patch there for a while." He closes the book and sets it down on the table, resigned to getting no reading done so long as York is hanging around. "I'm surprised you noticed. You're not usually that sensitive to how other people are feeling." Okay, so there's a little bitterness shining through on that one, but it's true, more or less.

York shrugs. "Hey, I can be observant if I want to. And sensitive."

"As a callus on an elephant's foot," North doesn't even bother trying to keep the fondness out of his voice "and yes, he seems tense to me. It's not surprising- he's younger than you and I, he didn't have time to grow into a full person before the Project. He doesn't have anything else to fall back on, no formal skills, no social network, no identity."

"So in your _sensitive_ opinion," York's mouth twists a little "he's having an existential crisis."

"Something like that, yeah."

"Doesn't explain why he's avoiding me."

"He's not avoiding you." North is absolutely sure about this, because just yesterday he watched the two of them play basketball in the driveway, where North's father had fixed a hoop to the side of the garage. 'Avoiding York' and 'scrimmaging with York until you're both sweaty and leaning on each other while still trash talking' are mutually exclusive categories.

"He's avoiding both of us. Or he wants to. Everything's all _weird_ now. And what's with the graveyard shifts, anyway? Can't stand to be awake when other people are around?"

"He wants to avoid us, but isn't actually avoiding us," North rolls his eyes "Got it. I bow to your superior understanding of human psychology."

"You can't tell me _something_ weird isn't going on with him," York insists "you act different around him."

North schools his face to stillness. York hasn't picked up on North being madly in love with him for half a decade, there's no way he's figured out what it means that North's gaze lingers on the door a little too long when Wash exits the room, that North doesn't like to leave the house on Wash's work days until he comes home safe in the morning, that Wash takes up an entire shelf in the fridge with orange juice and soda and pudding cups and fruit and North doesn't even mention it.

Hell, _North_ doesn't know what it means.

"We're none of us the same people we were during the Project," he says blandly, and although it's true he's lying when he says it.

"Bullshit," York uncrosses his arms and shoves his hands into his pockets "You haven't changed. I don't feel any different."

That surprises him. "Really? Even after-"

"I felt different, when I was with Lina," York turns away to stare into the living room, or some invisible point in the air between the kitchen and the living room "for a little while. Like a whole different person, a better person. But then I started to feel like _me_ again, and I started to _act_ like me again, and she just- we just-" he trails off.

"'Wherever you go, there you are'," North says.

York's head whips back around. "What is that, some fuckin' wisdom?"

"I'm very wise," North tells him, steepling his fingers for dramatic effect "And very observant. For instance, we seem to have gotten off the topic of Wash."

"How can you not _know_ something like that?" York sounds almost anxious, and all of a sudden North regrets his flippancy "how can you go your entire life and not _notice_ -"

"It sounds like things were falling apart even before that, York," North reminds him "and for the record, South said she wasn't surprised at all."

"South lives in hope of screwing every hot woman she comes into contact with," York says, offhandedly "of course she wasn't 'surprised'."

"Which are you more concerned about?" North asks him, frowning "that you just went through the end of a serious relationship, or that Carolina discovered she enjoys sex with women?"

"At the age of _twenty-eight_ ," York adds.

"Yes, so clearly you didn't 'turn' her," North is getting a little annoyed despite himself. Why is York so stuck on this? "It was just a coincidence, York. She happened to figure it out while you were living together. It doesn't imply anything about you. Let it go."

"It might," York grumbles, but North ignores him. York's just going to have to get over his unwarranted feelings of sexual inadequacy; at least, North suspects they're unwarranted, given some of the things York's revealed to him while drunk. York's partners have never wanted for creativity, that's for sure.

Best not to think too hard about that one. North's gotten used to not thinking about it, but for some reason having Wash around has gotten him all shook up about York again. It doesn't feel like jealousy, though. At this point he doesn't even know which of them he'd be jealous of.

He thinks again about the two of them in the driveway, sweaty and grinning, Wash uncharacteristically forward as he pulls York in to give him a noogie; York shouting in protest because he hates being reminded that Wash is taller than him.

"Wash will be fine," North says, with warm certainty.

York turns to him, blinks slowly, timber grey and eggshell white. The scar crinkles as he smiles. "He will, huh?"

"He's doing much better," North says again, tracing the cover of his book absently. Odysseus stands in the raised palm of the Cyclops, stares unflinchingly into the giant eye "Since you came back."

"Are we-" York gestures vaguely between them "You know. Are we cool?"

A variety of responses run through North's head, most of them needlessly sarcastic.

"This sensitivity thing isn't working out for you so well," he says, finally "Of course we're cool. Quit moping and come for a run with me, you've spent too many months sitting on your ass."

"Are you saying I'm fat?" York asks, with obviously feigned insult "How _insensitive_."

"No, I'm saying you're _lazy_ ," North slides the chair back and stands up "What's your mile time these days, seven minutes?"

_Seven minutes and eighteen seconds on my last count_ , Delta supplies, and York waves a hand through him, like swatting at a fly. Delta flickers out.

"I'm built for endurance, not speed," he grumbles "Daddy Long-Legs."

And just like that, they're back to normal again.

* * *

 

It's 0630. North has already been for a run, had breakfast, showered and packed for his 24-hour shift when Wash stumbles into the kitchen. North sighs and pours him a mug of coffee. This is why he wanted to talk about this _last_ night.

"I'm leaving Theta with you, remember?" he asks, rinsing and drying his bowl and setting it in the dish rack.

"Yeah, it's fine," Wash is dumping sugar into his coffee "I took Delta sometimes, when York wanted alone time with 'Lina. I'm used to it."

Theta pops up on North's shoulder, bobbing giddily. _I get to spend the day with Wash? Can we go to the park?_

"If you want, little guy," says Wash, giving him the thumbs up. Theta returns the gesture and vanishes.

"No violent video games," says North, "I have to go. Call me if he can't sleep or you have problems, I'll pick up if I can."

"Hand him over and get out of here, you can't be late for your first shift."

It's the first time North has pulled Theta, ever. Suddenly he's nervous about it. His fingers dance over the slot behind his ear, rubbing worriedly.

"We'll be _fine_ ," Wash peers at North over the top of his mug, then behind him to the doorway "Morning, York. Tell North I'll take good care of Theta, okay?"

York steps up behind North, much too close, and gently grabs his wrist, pulling it away from the implant. His practiced fingers slide the chip out, and then flick North on the back of the neck. Prick.

"Relax, Mr. Rogers," York heads for the coffee machine, passing Theta off to Wash along the way "Rookie here is totally G-rated."

Wash looks a little offended, but clicks the chip in behind his own ear and doesn't say anything. Then, "Woah. Hey, little man."

Theta appears on the table in front of him and waves. _Hi Wash. Nice to meet you for real._ They high-five, Theta's tiny hand phasing through Wash's palm.

"Go on, North." York makes a shooing gesture. "You're gonna be late."

North shoulders his duffel and nods, heading for the front door. As much as he doesn't like the idea of leaving Theta with someone else, he trusts Wash and he decided at the start of this not to bring the AI into another burning building. Theta's a kid, and he's seen enough death already.

"So," says York, much too loudly "Who wants to make popcorn for the Girls Gone Wild marathon?"

North groans and slams the door behind him.

* * *

 

When North finally stumbles in the door the next morning, bleary-eyed and silently cursing the station mattresses, he trips over a box. It's one of many, sealed and open and partially collapsed cardboard boxes that form a brown cubic landslide towards the kitchen. He stands there with the screen door resting open on his shoulder, staring at them and wondering why they won't just cooperate and move out of his way. At some point South comes down the stairs, barefoot and with a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth.

"Is this your doing?" North asks her, tiredly. Behind him, the coffee machine gurgles.

"Nuh-uh," says South, and spits into the kitchen sink "York. He stole the bathroom when I stepped out, too. Fuck that guy, when is he leaving?"

"He lives here now," North reminds her, for what seems like the hundredth time.

"Stop collecting them," South snarks at him, brandishing the toothbrush to communicate her indignance at York's usurpation of the upstairs bathroom "Or just sleep with one of them, already, and move the other one into the guest room. I want the sofa back."

"Stop," North says, as if _that_ ever helped, and toes at a box "No one's sleeping with anybody. And you got the _whole_ garage."

"Can't hold that one over me for the rest of your life, bro," South tells him, turning back towards the stairs, and nearly colliding with York going the other direction "Oh look, it's Freeloader Two. North was just telling me how you've racked up quite a debt in sexual favors."

" _SOUTH_ ," North says, sharply, but she's already vanished into the hallway.

"Sure have, you collecting?" York calls back at her, then shrugs when there's no response but the bathroom door slamming. He turns to North, who's still stranded in a sea of cardboard and packing material "Uh, shit. Sorry. They just keep sending them."

"What? Who?"

York points at the living room, where the sofa bed is sagging under the weight of what looks like an assortment of very expensive electronics- tablets, cameras, black boxes without visible interfaces, North doesn't even know where to begin. There's cords. Lots of cords.

"They're all locked," York says.

North looks down at the box closest to his feet. The postmark reads _República Federativa do Brasil_. It's addressed to "F-12, care of Lysenko, 1847 Beechwood Road, Buffalo Grove, IL 60089". His hands clench, and he's suddenly very, very awake.

"Woah, relax," York tells him, gripping North by the shoulders "Delta scanned everything _three times_ , it's all clean."

"Except you don't know what's _on_ them," North says, feeling a little bit ill "And who the hell knows your old-"

"Uh, you, Niner, CT, Lina, my _entire_ squad from Basic, the guys at the mess, chicks in bars who thought the phonetic alphabet sounded sexy-"

_The Counselor_ , North thinks, _Tex, the Director_ \- "Smells like spook," he says, but York's shaking his head.

"ONI would never stoop to paying for postage. Come on, let me have a _little_ fun."

North sighs. "Delta?"

There's only a vague green light beside York's ear. North suspects Delta's hard at work in those weird looking machines. _Hello, North_.

"What's the likelihood whoever sent these means us harm?"

It takes Delta a moment, and then _With the data currently available to me, I have determined that the probability of these puzzles being presented to York in bad faith is 12.88%._

"Puzzles," North says.

" _Puzzles_ ," York brushes by him to get at the coffee machine, which has finally stopped gurgling "I'm still on the first one. None of my usual bump keys have worked yet, it's all stenographic layers and holo-locks and cryptography and shit-"

"Just... sweep them for bugs, please," North says, collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table, duffel and high-visibility fire coat and all "and move the boxes. And bring me a cup of that, would you?" He stares at the black tablet in front of him. Some quasi-architectural hologram with moving parts is projected on top of it. It hums lowly.

"Someone's demanding this morning." But York's already setting the mug of black coffee in front of him. North inhales deeply, grasps for the handle. "You look like shit, too. Job not what you thought it would be?"

"Two two-alarms and one four-alarm, which we had to coordinate with Arlington Heights- that was a disaster- plus chauffeuring paramedics around at all hours. Somewhere in there was a styrofoam sleeping pad, I don't remember."

York whistles. He's got one hand manipulating the holo-lock and is using the other to sip his own mug.

"Apparently it's not always this bad," North says, and gulps coffee. He's looking forward to having Theta back; part of his stress level is probably separation anxiety.

Something in the hololock clicks, and then the projection flashes red. "Aw, fuck," York says "Dee, it's symmetric, stop running divisor functions and help me."

_That is not a very efficient use of our resources if we wish to unlock all of these devices_ , Delta replies.

"One thing at a time, Dee, one thing at a time."

There's a scuffling sound from upstairs, and the bathroom door bangs open again. York and North both look up at the light fixture.

"Oh my fucking god," South's shout carries through the ceiling "You're guys. You should _not_ take this long to primp in the morning."

York touches his gelled hair lightly, self-consciously. North doesn't have the energy to roll his eyes.

"It's all yours, South." Footsteps down the hall. Wash's door opens and closes.

She follows him across the second floor. The door opens again. "Seriously, were you jerking off in there, or what?"

"What the fuck! Go put on real clothes, I did _not_ need to see that!"

North would normally have intervened by now. Somewhere in the not-so-nice part of his brain, he's a little curious what will happen if he doesn't. Blood? Locusts? Nuclear fallout?

"Oh, like you care. Hey, any chance you were thinking about hot gay sex with my brother? I have a plan to free up the couch."

"Out! Get out!"

"You'd be doing everyone a favor!" It sounds like Wash is physically pushing her out the door, now. There's the squeak of bare feet sliding on wood "I have never seen a group of grown men who need to get over themselves so badly, just fucking do it already, just pick-"

Panic. "Okay!" North shouts at the ceiling "That's _enough_!" He doesn't entirely know why, but it's absolutely _critical_ that South not finish that sentence.

"Dude," York says mildly, refilling his coffee and watching North through the hologram rotating slowly above the table "Wash has the hots for you? Is that why he's been so weird lately?"

North stares at him. "Did you really not just hear-"

_If I may_ , Delta zips over to appear in front of North, reflecting green in the black surface of his coffee mug _York appears to have a lacuna when it comes to his relationship with yourself and Wash, psychologically speaking._

North has no idea what that means. He doesn't think the coffee will help, either.

Wash pounds down the stairs in a flurry of windbreaker and embarrassment, and then freezes when he spies them sitting at the kitchen table.

"Mornin'," York says casually, hefting a mug in Wash's direction "Coffee?"

North takes a long sip of his own coffee, because that's what people do when they need an excuse not to talk.

Wash shakes his head, mumbles something that sounds like 'gonna go spar with Maine', and vanishes out the door.

North stares after him. "Thanks for not teasing him," he says finally, setting the mug on the table.

"South's just being a bitch," York says, sounding completely, _suspiciously_ , unconcerned and disinterested "she knows sex stuff gets him riled up. You gonna go after him? He's still got Theta."

North stares, uncertain whether he just caught a major break, or whether York is playing some kind of long game with him and the hard-core ribbing is going to come later, when he least expects it.

"Woah, look at _this_ ," York exclaims, drawing a light structure upward into the air by his thumb and forefinger and flattening it out, like unfolding a box. It looks a like a lotus flower, soft and organic, but the petals are bleeding code "Dee, can you copy this for me?"

_Disabling copyright protection_. North watches as the AI zips away from him towards the sofa bed, where a tablet lights up momentarily before going dark again.

York plucks petals. "She loves me, she loves me not," he says, and then the lock clicks and flashes red again "Aw, fuck. Reset it."

_Resetting_ , Delta says, and North gets up to go calmly and reasonably express his dissatisfaction with his sister.

And to look up 'lacuna' in the dictionary.

* * *

 

**Maine.**

When Maine was a boy growing up in Burke, Vermont, his family kept rabbits.

They weren't pets. They lived in a run made of of chicken-wire in the yard in the summer, and during the colder months it was Maine's job to move them into hutches in the shed, where it wasn't much warmer but at least they wouldn't be snowed on. Snow in Burke could pile up to six feet, and it stayed around a long time, waiting to melt. When it did, it was mud season. Mud season was long because snowmelt from the mountains could continue for months. Then there was black fly season, and then it was snow again.

Moving the rabbits in and out of the shed was pretty much the only time Maine touched them, or payed much attention to them at all. Sometimes his father asked Maine to dress and skin one, but mostly it was his mother's job to do that. She was very good at it.

When Maine moved the rabbits, he would grab them by the scruff first, to catch them. They usually went still from fear. Then he would put one hand under the forelegs, spreading them with his fingers, and take the back legs in his other hand. When he walked them to the shed, the rabbits were spread out between his hands like they were already just skins. They were warm, though, and brown, and soft.

Max is much smaller than those other rabbits, or maybe it's just that Maine is bigger. She fits entirely in the palm of one hand, and she loves to be picked up, provided Maine does it slowly enough and doesn't scare her. She's not brown, either. She's mostly white, with a big black spot lapsing over her back and sides. Maine's seen hogs colored like that, and ponies, but never rabbits.

Her ears are very, very soft. Sometimes when he's studying late at night he lets her out onto the table and just pets her ears with the index finger of his left hand as he does calculations with the right.

"A female rabbit is called a doe," he tells Jason, when the boy comes to visit Max at the dorm. Jason's moms moved them into an apartment in Zone 2, North told him, and they can't have pets.

"No," says Jason, holding Max to his chest and using his whole hand to pet her "That's deers. 'Doe a deer'."

Maine doesn't argue with him. Children know everything.

"Want juice?" He asks instead, opening his half-sized refrigerator and reaching behind two rows of protein shakes for the pulp-free orange juice Wash likes. Maine still doesn't understand the appeal of fruit juice that has no actual fruit in it.

_What am I going to do with the rabbit?_ North had asked him, laughing. _South hates it._

Jason nods. Maine pours lifeless, watery orange juice into a cup.

"Thank you very much," says Jason, rehearsed.

"Welcome." Maine nods in approval. His parents raised him polite, too. He thinks he turned out alright.

Jason sits on the floor in front of the television with Max in his lap and drinks juice. Maine sits at the table and skims another historical article explaining the damage Shaw and Fujikawa wrought on the Standard Model. He finds this stuff, and most of particle physics if he's honest, less interesting than condensed matter and solid state physics. It's a requirement, though.

Maine understands abstractions, and he even understands infinity- he spent enough time in space, after all. But above all he likes to work with his hands, with real things. Kinetics, thermodynamics, electromagnetism: these subjects are old fashioned, but they suit him. Always have. There wasn't much to do in Burke but watch ice melt and water freeze, and wonder why it happened the way it did. Why one slight wind could topple a widowmaker that had been hanging securely for months. Why one evening when he was out hunting white-tails and a storm rolled in so fast he had to shelter under a camo tarp, he saw ball lightning riot between the trees.

There's a 'blip' noise from over by the television. Small brown hands set Max on the table and she hops over to sit on Maine's notebook.

"I have to go," Jason tells him. Maine looks down. Jason's phone is flashing.

"Thank you for taking care of my rabbit," he says.

Maine nods solemnly.

"I'll be back next week, okay?" Jason reaches up to pet Max one last time. Her tiny body quivers.

Maine nods again. Jason picks up his backpack and runs out the door and down the stairs.

Maine goes back to reading about electron neutrino oscillations and stroking Max's ears. It's fifty-five degrees outside. He's thinking about snow.

* * *

 

Maine's taking a walk around the Agronomy quad when his phone rings.

He likes this part of campus the best, because it's quiet and the students don't try to talk to him. Maine thinks that they assume he's a worker. He could probably walk right in to one of the domed green houses without anyone batting an eye.

There are apple trees here, all along the walkways, and he likes to sit underneath them and chuck windfall apples into the Saganashkee Slough. Without the suit, his overhand is weaker, but he likes how organic it feels, likes having to make the calculations on arc length and velocity himself instead of relying on the HUD to tell him how the world works.

He has Introduction to Aerospace Engineering tonight, which usually either bores him or makes him vaguely angry. Maine's of the firm belief that people who've never been inside a Pelican except when it was docked as a museum display shouldn't be designing troop carriers. Dr. Artsutanov's descriptions of g-force's effects on the human body don't take into account troop stress or any of the hundreds of things that can go wrong on a drop ship operation. In her diagrams the soldiers are all the same height and they're always strapped safely in. There's never baggage or ammunition floating around, no one's ever having a panic attack and they never get shot at while someone's still standing in the middle of the bay, or assisting wounded who can't be moved for risk of spinal injury.

Maine doesn't say anything, though. Artsutanov is like the HUD; she's just programmed that way. People are who they are, they don't change.

So when his phone rings, and it's Wash, Maine picks up because he likes Wash and probably always will.

"Hey, where are you? It's Tuesday, that's 'beat up on Wash' day."

Wash is early. "Early," Maine grunts "Five minutes."

"Sweet," Wash says, and then there's a pause "Just so you know, I kind of left the house with Theta by accident."

Maine stands, dusts himself off, then looks up at the canopy. Wash likes fruit. He reaches up, twists small, ripe apples off the branches, fills up his pockets.

"Uh, Maine, buddy? Theta, is that gonna be a problem?"

Maine shrugs the phone back up to his ear. "Still beat you," he says.

"Will not," Wash says, and hangs up.

Maine smiles.

* * *

 

Wash thanks him for the apples, but he doesn't want to eat. He wants to fight. Maine leaves his stuff in the dorm and follows Wash down to the gym.

They have something of a fan club at this point, and even though they're early today it only takes a few rounds for the gym to fill up with spectators. Maine just ignores them. The one time some frat imbeciles got too rowdy and started shouting about bets, he picked the biggest one up by the collar and shook him. Since then, it's been quiet as a library.

Despite their teasing, Wash does manage to beat Maine on a fairly regular basis. He's figured out that Maine has trouble on the ground- he falls hard, and if he doesn't have roll momentum he's slow to get up- and tries to take advantage of it. He's got good aim and reflexes, so once Maine's on the ground there's not much he can do but protect his face while Wash pummels him, works a gaurd pass, or just flat out drags Maine into an armlock. Maine's good at takedowns, though, and most of the time he winds up flipping Wash onto the floor before Wash can drop him and using the time Wash wastes getting up to close with him. Once he gets in there, there's not much Wash can do to mitigate his size, and Maine out-maneuvers him in a clinch hold nine times out of ten, mostly by virtue of being taller.

Wash's form is technically perfect, but he's always relied too heavily on weapons, and training in the suit means he never took the time to learn how to effectively strike with his bare hands. Maine has been forcing him to drill palm strikes, but it doesn't do Wash any good if he can't land them in a clinch, other than the satisfaction of knowing he could break Maine's nose easily on the ground with one well-placed heel of the hand.

Today it feels like Wash isn't even trying. Maine's dropped him twice without much difficulty. Wash, being Wash, just rolls himself back up and bounces on the balls of his feet, shakes his head a little and raises his fists. Maine smacks his fake-out left jab away, ducks the real blow from the right, and coming back up hooks an elbow around Wash's neck and flips him to the ground. He's clearly not using Theta, as his reaction time is abysmal. He at least had room for a side elbow in there.

"Distracted," Maine chides, as Wash rolls onto his feet again and hops back a few yards to sink into a defensive stance.

"Yeah," he admits "Sorry. Weird morning." He circles Maine, guard up.

Maine goads him a little, presses in on him with his fists, leaving his lower half open. Wash ducks low and tries to sweep him with a kick, but Maine's ready for him and just steps inside, letting Wash's thigh strike his shin harmlessly. Before Wash can roll back up, Maine hooks his foot under Wash's extended knee and kicks up, flipping him onto his stomach. Wash manages to keep his face from hitting the mat, and springs back up after a moment. Someone in the crowd makes a sympathetic noise.

"Use him," Maine suggests. He's curious- York was excellent in close quarters even before Delta, and Maine's never seen North do any significant hand-to-hand outside of drills. "

You asked for it," Wash says, and there's a flicker of purple by his ear that's gone so quickly even Maine, who knows just where to look, barely notices it. Wash rushes him, head down and arms crossed, which he hasn't tried on Maine in a while since it _never_ works. Maine catches him around the neck with both forearms and pulls him up into a clinch. Wash knees him in the stomach, lightly but enough to distract him for a fraction of a second. He thinks Wash is going to headbutt him, it's what Maine would do, but instead he presses the side of his head _hard_ into Maine's, which sets him off balance. Wash's head and shoulders follow him down, and then there's a hand gripping behind his knee, and before Maine can even think about it he's flat on his back and in an armbar. He claps his free hand on the mat, and Wash lets him up.

Well, that was interesting.

After that, Wash throws him five times in a row. Each way is different and uses Maine's weight against him. Each way lands him on his back. After number six ends in a choke hold he starts getting a little annoyed, and a little sore. Their fan club is whispering louder than usual. Maine's pretty sure he hears the word "judo" a few times, but Wash doesn't know judo.

"You done?" Wash is leaning over him, hands on his knees. He's grinning, so at least making a fool of Maine in front of two dozen guys he shares a locker room with got him in a better mood, whatever his problem was.

"Prick," Maine says, and Wash laughs, offering him a hand up.Maine, in a show of rather uncharacteristic poor sportsmanship, uses it to pull Wash down at the same time he swipes an ankle under him. Wash's face hits the mat this time.

"Okay," he mumbles into the plastic "I deserved that."

Maine pats him on the shoulder and gets up. Now _he_ feels better, too.

"You know what would soothe your wounded pride?" Wash asks, rolling over to squint up at the lights "Orange juice. And maybe some arnica."

Maine gives him completely unironic hand up.

* * *

 

North comes by a little before lunch, looking tired and aggrieved. Wash lets him into the dorm room, and when he sees Maine leaning on the counter with an ice-pack, he groans.

"Tell me you didn't," he says, sinking down onto Maine's small, uncomfortable sofa.

"Okay, so, I won't?" Wash looks guiltily at him from the doorway, and he's also blushing for some reason Maine can't even begin to imagine "You uh, probably want him back now, huh?"

North nods. "Please. I'm starting to get a headache."

"Oh shit, sorry." Wash puts down his glass of orange juice on the table and clicks Theta out from behind his ear, shuffling over to the sofa in bare feet. North extends a palm and takes the chip, setting it back where it belongs. Maine watches as some of the strain leaves his face and he leans back into the cushions.

Theta materializes almost immediately. Maine has to squint to make out what he's wearing, and he's startled into a laugh when he realizes it's a tiny purple Gi, complete with belt.

North looks over at him and smiles, politely. "Hello, Maine. Sorry to barge in."

Maine shrugs. It's fine by him.

_I had a lot of fun with Maine and Wash_ , Theta says, and then bows in Maine's direction.

Maine just nods solemnly. He doesn't really feel like bending down at the moment.The ice pack is melting. He heads to the freezer to exchange it for a new one.

"Theta kicked Maine's ass," Wash says, and he's still wearing that blush "I didn't know they could take over like that- Delta never does anything like that."

_Delta doesn't like being in York's nervous system_ , Theta explains _he says it makes him feel too 'indistinct'_.

"York doesn't like him in there either, so it works out," North says "Did I or did I not tell you two to stay out of trouble?"

Maine shuts the freezer and opens the fridge. He wasn't expecting company for lunch; all he really has are protein shakes.

"Yeah," that's Wash, retreating back to his orange juice "Sorry." He sounds subdued. Maine doesn't like it when Wash sounds like that. He feels a flash of something like anger at North, but pushes it back down. It's not his business.

_You're not mad, though_ , Theta says _I'd know if you were mad_.

"I'm not mad," North confirms, then stands up "I'm gonna head home. I'll see you later, Wash."

"Okay," Wash says, and backs up to put his glass in the sink as North moves towards the door. Putting distance between them, Maine notes.

North stops at Maine's shoulder and looks up at him. Maine crosses his arms and looms a little bit. Okay, so he's got a tickle of protective anger still. North doesn't step to him, but he doesn't smile, either.

"Nice to see you," he says, and then, quieter "Thank you for being... what you are. To him."

"A friend," Maine says, because it's really very simple. Whatever's going on with North and Wash, it isn't simple.

North nods, takes a step out, then pauses. "Come by any time," he says, hand on the door frame "you and Max; you're always welcome."

Maine nods back at him, and North closes the door.

Wash peeks his head out from behind the open refrigerator. He's holding a jar of peanut butter and a bag of bread from the cabinet.

"What did you do with those apples? It's lunch time."

Maine watches him for a minute, thinking.

"What?" Wash asks him. The blush is gone. Interesting.

Maine shrugs and goes to get the apples.

* * *

 

**CT**.

By the time Carolina's been bunking at CT's place for two days, the entire base knows about her break-up with York. Carolina, being Carolina, handles the gossip with considerable aplomb; of course, that's not hard, given that most of the rank and file are terrified of her.

No, instead it's CT that finds herself really, really annoyed about it. She's a private person- always has been, and she hates it when people are in her business, when people _know_ things about her, even innocuous things. She doesn't talk about herself, she doesn't promote herself, and she tries to be as uninteresting as possible. CT didn't realize until the gossip started that she must have messed up somewhere on that front, because she is apparently well-known to the base community as "the Loggie Lesbo".

Had she known, she'd have suggested Carolina bunk elsewhere, but the damage is done and now when CT goes to get lunch in the mess ONI staff try to high-five her and York's grunt buddies give her identical glares from their tightly packed, cliquish tables.

CT hasn't felt this exposed since high school, and at least in high school she was getting laid. This isn't the only reason she puts in a good word for Carolina with SPEC-OPCOM; CT does have friends, and she does do them a good turn when she can- but it's definitely a factor.

"Special Warfare Command," CT says, dropping the first brief down on the kitchen table in front of Carolina, who's working on her second cup of coffee. Then another "Force Recon," and the last one, the thinnest folder, the one she's banking on being really tempting "LETHE Test Group Alpha".

Carolina flips open the cover. There's a single sheet of paper. About 95% of the text has been redacted. CT knows what's left: "TOP SECRET", "Talitsa", "experimental", "high-value target acquisition", and "urban combat".

"Well," says Carolina "That's helpful."

CT sits down across from her, peels open a breakfast bar. "Look at the other two first. If you don't want them, come to my office at 7 and I'll fill you in."

"It's an ONI thing?" Carolina asks, closing the LETHE folder and flipping through the Force Recon. It's pretty much the same as all the other options CT's pulled for her in the last week- small, elite squads stationed on warships that don't have much to do besides waste their time chasing pirates. They're missing those critical elements that get someone like Carolina interested- real risk, big goals, few lifelines. Plunging into a hostile unknown and pushing the darkness back by sheer force of will and skill.

"7 pm," CT repeats, and crunches granola. Frankly, LETHE (and most of what goes on in ONI's Section III) makes her uncomfortable, but she's always had a humanist streak, despite her line of work. Carolina, though- Carolina will see anything through. Moral ambiguities don't interest her.

There's a lot of space between Earth and Talitsa. A lot of room for Carolina to break free of York, and Tex, and her father. At least, CT hopes so; they _are_ friends, after all. And CT needs Carolina out of the way, for whenever the day comes that Leonard Church slips up. She isn't going to let him get away a second time.

"See you tonight," she tells Carolina, who nods distractedly over a packet of CSVs.

Time for the "Loggie Lesbo" to keep a few thousand ONI operatives alive another day from the comfort of her corner office.

* * *

 

It's 10pm Friday night and CT is still in the office, carefully watering her orchid exactly on schedule when the phone rings. It's South. She ignores it. South always calls on Friday nights, although usually at a later hour. Maybe she started drinking early today. In any event, CT doesn't want to talk to her.

It's not that she feels guilty about doing her job, it's really not. More like South is everything CT doesn't need in her life, crystallized and hardened and compressed into a diamond of capital-T Trouble.

The phone rings again. CT frowns. Usually South just leaves a really long, somewhat obscene message and gives up for the night. She checks the caller ID. It's Carolina this time. CT picks up immediately.

"What's wrong?" she asks, because Carolina never calls her, ever. CT's never even seen her _use_ a civilian phone.

"South wants to talk to you," Carolina says "Here." And then there's a rustling noise through the receiver and yeah, smells like Trouble.

"Are you drunk?" CT asks right off the bat "I'll call you a ride, but that's it."

"You're such a bitch," South tells her "Get your ass downtown, we're taking Carolina to Pearl."

CT hasn't gone to Pearl, or any nightclub for that matter, since she got hired by ONI nine years ago. "Why?"

"Because she asked me to teach her how to hook up with ladies and we need someone to butch it up. Get your plaid out, honey."

"That doesn't sound like Carolina," CT says "put her back on."

"You're on fucking speaker, just ask."

"Nice try," says CT, and South huffs a breath that's obnoxiously loud in her ear.

Then there's rustling again, and Carolina says, "CT."

"Do you need extraction?" CT asks, dryly.

To her surprise, Carolina _laughs_ a little- just a little. "I'm shipping out soon. This is my last chance to have a good time. I could use a wingman."

" _I'm_ your wingman," South shouts in the background, and CT smiles despite herself.

"Alright," she says "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Then CT locks her office, salutes the night-duty door guards, and goes to find something appropriate to wear.

_Not_ plaid.

* * *

 

Pearl hasn't changed much in nine years- still full of women, still pretentious. The cover has gone up, but CT pays it without a second thought. It's a small place, but lit and equipped like a much bigger club, which makes for an awkward experience- music's a little too loud, lights are too flashy and not conducive to conversation, but you still wind up having to share tables with strangers and bump elbows with everyone else on the floor. CT knows the point isn't to talk, though. There's a few hired dancers on the stage, all very femme, looking bored as they writhe up and down on their poles. The crowd doesn't pay them much attention.

CT gets herself a beer and is relieved to see Carolina and South sitting at the bar, an empty seat between them with South's leather jacket slung over it.

South with jacket off means South's arms are free, muscular and packed tight with ink that CT can't quite make out in the flashing pink and green strobe. No, there it is- the cobra and the ferrety-looking thing. The cobra's hood flares black in the dim light- the purple eyes seem to glitter. She's wearing a black tank top with no bra. There's white block lettering on the back- CT squints. _Ride it like you stole it_.

CT sets her beer down on the bar between them and they both look up at her at the same time. Carolina gives her a salute. South's got a grin on that can only be described as "shit-eating". The enamel on her teeth flashes pink, green, pink again.

"What took you so long?" she shouts, hefting a glass of something toxic-looking "'Lina's already into the scotch."

"Couldn't find anything to wear," CT shouts back, sweeping the jacket off the stool and sitting down. The leather is soft and worn, and the linen patches leave traces of dirt on her fingers. She bets it smells like mud and fuel. South doesn't grab for it, so CT folds it over her lap. "It's too loud in here."

"You have no life," South yells, directly into her ear "I'm doing you a fuckin' favor. And take the hat off, it's awful."

CT lays a protective hand over her fisherman's cap. She wore it all through high school and had been strangely relieved to find it stuffed in the back of her closet.

"I'm gonna go ask her for her number," says Carolina, abruptly, and slams her shot glass down before lurching off towards the dance floor.

Apparently CT walked in on an ongoing conversation, because South sits straight up and grabs after Carolina."No! Wait! You can't _talk_ to her, you'll ruin fuckin' everything!"

"Never know until you try, South!" Carolina shouts back, and vanishes into the crowd.

"Why do I get the feeling she doesn't actually need your help?" CT asks.

South slumps down on the bar. "Oh, she'll be fine. It just had to be _Lucy_ though, didn't it?"

CT takes another swig of her beer. "You know the girl she's after?"

"Dated her," South grumbles.

"I thought you didn't date." Hadn't North told her that, once? Neither of them did, apparently.

"Fucked her," South clarifies.

"Oh." That makes more sense, then.

"Mack Uretsky was eying her earlier and I had to chase _her_ off, girl never cuts her fuckin' nails-"

"Is there anyone in the Greater Chicago Industrial Zone you _haven't_ had sex with?" CT asks, a little snidely. She'd forgotten how insular the queer scene was around here. At least it's been long enough that anyone CT really doesn't want to run into probably won't recognize her. She pulls the cap down a little anyway.

"Lina. You. Straight girls. Well, most of the straight girls" South finishes her weird looking drink and waves her hand for another one. She's wearing fingerless gloves. "I did get North's fag hag Alice and her bestie in high school, that was fun. I miss sleepovers."

CT gapes at her. "You're a caricature of yourself. It's embarrassing."

"Yes, Connie," the bartender (butch, late thirties, heavily pierced) sets another glass down in front of South and gets a high-five in return "I am the bloodthirsty lesbian from the volleyball team your mother warned you about."

CT's mother hadn't warned her about any lesbians. CT's mother went to her deathbed thinking CT was going to marry some nice young infantryman and settle on Reach with two kids, a stipend, and a dog. CT's mother would be having a heart attack right about now.

"What's wrong with Lucy, then?" CT asks, rolling her eyes.

" _Lucille_ ," South spits, actually spits, down at her boots "Is an anti-war activist. Also, will only give head to other vegans."

"That's... a thing?"

"It's a thing for Lucille." South cracks her neck, and then stands up, grabbing her jacket out of CT's lap "Actually, this could be fun. Do you think Carolina's ever even _met_ a pacifist? I'm gonna go watch them fight."

CT scrambles up after her. "You're not being a very good wingman," she points out.

"Like you said," South slings the jacket over her shoulder and presses into the crowd of bodies "She doesn't need my help."

* * *

 

"Watch them fight, huh?" CT shouts, right into South's ear. It hadn't taken South very long to locate Carolina's fire-engine red hair against the wall near the bathrooms. Very, very close to the fire-engine red was a shock of bottle blonde. "I don't think they're debating the ethics of warfare, South."

"I can't fuckin' believe it," says South, actually sounding angry "Girl told me I was going to _hell_ when I enlisted. What makes _her_ so special?"

CT doesn't even bother stepping into that minefield.

"Gonna have a smoke," South shouts, and elbows past CT for the back door. CT follows. There's a sign reading "Employees ONLY", but South just nods at the bouncer and they let her through without a word.

The door bangs shut and the sudden quiet is like being hit in the face with a bucket of cold water. CT sags gratefully against the wall. She hadn't realized how tense she was getting in there.

"Since when do you smoke?" CT asks.

"I dunno, who fuckin' cares?" South rummages in her pockets with her fingers, hiking her jacket up. It looks awkward- those jeans are really tight, CT notes, and blushes a little. South wriggles and finally gets hold of her lighter.

"Quit lookin' at my ass, Mata Hari," South says, and CT jerks her head up. South's grinning. There's a... something, resting in the corner of her mouth, between her teeth.

"That's not a cigarette," CT observes.

"Gonna tell Mom?" South sneers, lighting it. The end flares orange with crinkling paper when she inhales.

CT sighs and turns her head away before South can blow smoke on her. They stand there in silence for a little while, South puffing and CT tapping her foot to the bass line that's shaking out of the club.

South elbows her, and there's a hand in her face- fingerless gloves, blunt between thumb and forefinger. South's wearing a ring on her pinky, a little silver snake biting its own tail. Her nails are short and surprisingly clean. CT, unthinking, takes a drag right from her hand- her nose bumps South's knuckles, her lips brush over those bare fingers. The surprise of it makes her inhale too deeply, and CT jerks back. Fuck, that's hot. She coughs, throat burning. South, miraculously, doesn't laugh, just thumps her on the back with her lower arm.

"You seem happier," CT says, when she's cleared her throat what feels like a dozen times.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" South sinks down the wall to sit on the sidewalk, legs crossed.

CT follows, because looking down on South is _weird_ as hell. "Just- happier. Less angry, I guess?"

"Not getting shot at all day will do that," South says, and reaches over again to offer CT the blunt "I'm still mad at you, though."

CT takes a much smaller hit this time, lets it out slowly through the side of her mouth. "I know."

"I mean, really fuckin' angry, Connie."

"I _know_."

Another long few minutes of relative quiet. CT's just starting to feel a little buzzed when her phone vibrates. She fishes it out of her pocket. It's Carolina.

_Got a ride,_ the text reads _see you tomorrow, LT._ _-C_

Great. Now CT's stuck here until the high wears off and she feels confident driving.

"It was my chance, you know?" South blows smoke out her nose. CT watches it drift up into the night and dissipate. "To finally _beat_ him at something. My whole life- he's always been taller, stronger, smarter, nicer- it's just so fuckin' _easy_ for him."

_More selfish_ , CT thinks, examining South's profile haloed in smoke, the sharp nose and chin, the scar like a tiger's stripe, _more ruthless. More honest. More beautiful._

"Yeah," she says "but can he ride a dirt bike?"

South barks out a laugh. "Oh, fuck off, Connie."

"I'm serious," CT insists, and she is "could he do something like that? Something that _he_ wanted, just for himself? Could he sit still for this-" and she runs her hand over the tattoo, like she's wanted to for ages "and wear it for the rest of his life? Just because it meant something to _him_ , and to hell with what other people think?"

"'Self absorption is not an attractive quality'," South says, and the cadence, the sarcasm, tells CT it's something South has heard many times over the years.

"Guess I'm just weird, then," CT says, without thinking.

South stubs the roach out on the sidewalk and _leans_ into her, grinning like a shark. "Why Lieutenant," she says "I didn't know you cared."

CT thinks of that list South gave her earlier: 'Lina. _You_. Straight girls.' Ugh. She scrambles upright so fast she gets head rush. This was a mistake. She can call a car, and one for South to get her back to the suburbs-

South straight up pins her to the wall by the shoulders, wedges a leg in between CT's and purrs, smelling like smoke and diesel. CT's reminded again of how much shorter she is- she struggles, but there's no give.

"Is this why you never call me back?" South growls, right in her ear "Is this why you _ignore_ me? No one fucking _ignores_ me, Connie-"

"Let me go," CT says, very calmly. She can see South's pulse pounding beneath the pale skin of her collarbone, she's so close. There's the edge of a tattoo there, too, crawling up from her breast, the tail of some mythical animal, all scales and fur and fire.

South bites her ear, hard.

"I'm serious," CT winces "Last warning." She's been more than civil- South's been out of the field for months, and even ONI "desk jockeys" stay in shape. CT could hurt her, if she wasn't in danger of losing the ear. If she didn't _care_ so damn much-

South lets go of her ear, but doesn't back off immediately, so CT takes the high ground and just slams one booted foot into South's instep. She yelps and hops backward, face red.

"This-" CT reaches up to her ear and comes back with fingers bloody, points them straight at South " _this_ kind of shit is why I don't return your fucking calls."

"What was all that about liking me the way I am, huh?" South's very red- from anger or embarrassment CT can't tell. She's too angry herself, at the moment. Driving is definitely out.

"Not the part where you act like everyone else exists either to give you a good time or make your life suck," CT realizes she's shouting, and takes a deep breath "I'll send you a ride. _Don't_ call me again."

South shouts something back at her, but CT doesn't bother listening.

* * *

 

**Wash.**

"Maybe it's some kind of viral marketing," Wash says, clearing a way through the mess of wires to sit on the sofa bed.

York frowns, concentrating at something in his hands that's projecting geometric holograms from three sides. "Nah. This is expensive stuff. Meaning, don't spill soda on it."

Wash rolls his eyes and sucks loudly on the straw. "That's a new one. Did you solve the first?"

"We're on number four," York tells him, and twists something inside the lock that makes one of the three structures disperse in a flicker of light.

"Soooo what was inside?"

York passes him a familiar looking tablet without looking away from his new project. Wash takes it in his free hand and swipes down automatically. The screen lights up.

"It's... a bird?" Wash has never seen one like it before- it has a really long neck and is swallowing a fish. The image is just a drawing, though. It looks old.

"A blue heron," York says "They're extinct. It's encrypted- Dee, unscramble it for him, would ya?"

The image _twists_ in a way that makes Wash's head hurt. Then the bird is gone, and there's just green text on the black screen.

"Vestol Corporation," he reads "Hey, I've heard of them."

"They used to make Mark IV Rogues," says York "Apparently they do anti-infiltration tech now."

"This is a job listing," Wash realizes, scrolling further down with his thumb "Huh. That's pretty clever. Why bother interviewing everyone when you can weed them out this way, I guess- oh man, they give you _dental_? You have to take this."

"Ya _think_?" York finally puts down whatever it is he's working on to flick Wash on the forehead "I start in November. The more of these I crack before then, the bigger my signing bonus."

"Oh," says Wash, stupidly, as it hits him all at once "I guess that means you're not gonna be staying on the couch, anymore."

"Why is everyone so hung up on the couch?" York asks. Wash is pretty sure it's rhetorical. "Am I really so annoying that you'd trade me for a sofa?"

"Well, yeah, in a heartbeat," Wash sets the tablet down on the coffee table and crosses his legs "But I meant more that you won't be unemployed anymore. You can't really want to stay." _Please want to stay._

"Well, I'm not moving to fuckin' Sao Paulo. They can keep mailing them. I'll work out rent with North, or something."

"Good luck with that," Wash tells him. He tried to slip a few hundred cred notes into North's wallet once. He found them under his bedroom door the next morning with a post-it reading _Nice try._ There was even a little smiley face, courtesy of Theta.

"What about you?" York asks him, crossing his own legs and leaning back into the couch, left side to Wash like it's nothing "you stickin' around?"

"Elyse wants me on during the day as shift supervisor," Wash shrugs "It's a nice pay bump. I like the place."

"Woah, management at the recharge station? You're moving up in the world," York grins.

Wash elbows him. Even on his blind side, York manages to lean out of the way. "Don't be a dick. Not all of us have state-of-the-art computers living in our brains."

York doesn't say anything for a minute. When Wash looks over at him, he's got a distant expression, like he does when Delta's working hard on something.

"You know, I keep asking myself- is it weird? Is this weird?" York runs a hand through his hair, stares at the blank television across the room.

"Is what weird?"

"Living all together like this. I mean, I don't _want_ to leave. I don't feel like I'm crowding you guys or anything-"

"You're not," Wash reassures him, like York ever needs reassuring. His heart rate picks up, though ( _' **you** guys', like not **him** , but York doesn't want to leave, York wants to stay, 'grown men, get over yourselves'-_).

"It's weird, though, right?" York turns to him. His hair is sticking up funny.

Wash shrugs, tries ignore the way his heart is pounding, climbing up into his throat, "It's like barracks. I mean, I don't think it's weird. It's what we're used to."

"I guess," York says, and without thinking about it, as if Theta's still controlling his arms and they don't belong to him, Wash reaches out a hand and smooths York's hair back to the way it should be. It's stiff with gel and his scalp is very warm.

York stares at him like he's gone insane, and Wash salvages the situation by giving him a noogie. _Quick thinking, genius_ , he tells himself.

York makes a little huffing noise of annoyance and lunges at him. Wash tumbles backward over the arm-rest, smacks his hands on the floor, and rolls back onto his feet. York scrambles after him, trips over a stray cord, and Wash bangs out the front door to seek refuge with South in the garage. 

* * *

 

Everything is going fine for Wash until he comes home from work one evening to find North boiling red lentils for kofte in the kitchen. Wash stands in the doorway, coat slung over his shoulder, stunned. The scent of cumin wafts out into the street.

North turns to greet him, smiling, then pauses. His face goes still and wary.

"Wash?" he asks, setting down the knife he's been using to chop spring onions, very deliberately and obviously. He steps away from the counter. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

York looks up from where he's reading the back of a bag of rice at the table. The scar creases with concern. "Woah."

"Wash." North steps up closer to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Everything feels very far away. Wash stares at North's (pale) hand, York's (dead) eye.

"Wash," North repeats, "You're scaring me. What's the matter?"

_What's the matter_ , Wash thinks. The smell has him paralyzed. Something dark and unwelcome creeps at the edges of his consciousness. He pushes it back, but it's got him by the nose, now, and it creeps, smelling of cumin, cumin-

Wash remembers. Oh, of course. How could he possibly have forgotten?

"I'm fine," he says, batting North's hands away and backing up towards the door "I just... need some air, for a minute."

"You're crying," North tells him, and when the cool air (cumin) hits Wash's face he realizes that it's true "Why are you crying?"

"Need some air," Wash repeats, and shuts the door in North's face. He steps down off the porch, sniffs. Best go to the end of the block. Just to be safe.

York catches up with him within a minute.

"His cooking isn't _that_ bad," he says, then pauses "It's not, right? _Is_ it that bad?"

Wash doesn't feel like laughing, doesn't feel like faking it. He sits down on the curb, heavily.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says.

York shrugs. "Yeah, I figured, what with the running out of the house, and all."

"Is North upset?" Wash asks, because for some reason that matters to him more than is really healthy.

"North is confused," York tells him "He'll get over it."

Wash wants to ask _what did he see? what did he see in my face?_ , but is afraid he knows the answer already.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says again.

"Yeah man, I heard you. It's fine. Nobody's gonna-"

"I don't want to _talk_ about it," Wash cuts him off "I want to _tell_ you, but I don't want to _talk_ about it."

York stares at him for what seems like ages, and then comprehension strikes.

"Oh, okay. Theta, or Delta?"

"Delta." It's not even a choice.

"He's fine with it," York says "Just me, or North, too?"

"You first," Wash decides "then- I don't know. You know him better, you tell me."

"I don't," York says, simply.

Wash frowns at him, not understanding.

"I don't know him better, anymore," York insists "I was gone. You were here. You know him."

"Don't be a dick," Wash tells him, and stands up, offering York a hand. He takes it. "The two of you are so in each other's business it's scary."

York just shrugs at him. "Whatever you say, man."

Wash doesn't want to get into this right now. He also doesn't want to go back into the house, back into the _kitchen_. (He's afraid to go into the kitchen).

York is leading them back, though, so he follows. Thankfully North is sitting on the porch steps, and the door is closed. He's changed his shirt, for some unfathomable North reason.

"What was it?" North asks, when they come into view, voice calm and completely stripped of emotion "Was it the knife? How I was standing? What was it?" Oh. That's why he changed his shirt. Wash looks down. Yep, changed the pants, too. Trust North to cover all his bases.

"The smell," he admits "Sorry. I know you like the whole global cuisine thing."

"No more Turkish food," North says, less like he's making a personal note and more like he's giving an order as head of household: no one will ever cook, eat, smell, or be near Turkish food, ever again.

"Wash doesn't want to _talk_ about it," says York. North gives him a Look, but it falls away when he realizes York's not trying to be snide.

"Oh," he says after a moment, and scratches behind his ear.

"Seriously," says Wash "How do you _do_ that?"

"I'll go put the fan on," North declares, and vanishes back into the house. York and Wash stand awkwardly on the porch- at least, Wash feels awkward.

"It's stupid," he says, suddenly "It's from when- the colony, where I grew up, but I- I've seen plenty of dead people- killed a lot, even- it's just. Stupid."

"It's not stupid," York tells him.

"You don't know that," Wash snaps, because he expects the platitudes from North and somehow they're even more annoying from York, who should fucking know better.

"It freaks you out that much, whatever it is, it's not stupid," York shrugs.

"It shouldn't bother me," Wash insists "It doesn't, really. I mean, I don't even think about it, hardly ever."

"I have nightmares about fourth grade Math class," York supplies "I ever tell you about those? I get an eye blown out by a fucking hand grenade, I jump off a skyscraper; do I have nightmares about that? No. I have nightmares about Mrs. Flaherty calling me to the front of the room when I have no clothes on."

"It's not the same thing," Wash grumbles, but can't help smiling a little bit. He tries to imagine York in fourth grade, terrified of his math teacher, of being shown up in public.

"So show me," York says, and pulls Delta, reaching behind Wash's ear to click the chip in. Wash feels his face heat a little, surprised. Normally York just hands him Delta, but now the hand lingers for a moment, tracing the sensitive skin of his neck, running lightly over Wash's clipped hair. "Play it for him. He'll record it."

Then Delta's there, and Wash sits down on the porch, closes his eyes, and remembers.

* * *

 

It's Spring cycle in Groombridge-1830 when the Colonial Militia, the policemen, come. David is seven and sitting on the floor of Mesud's two-room housing unit, playing with holo-blocks while Mesud reads comic books. Mesud is nine and David loves going to play at his house, because Mesud's mother gives them halvah and the yogurt drink everyone from Mesud's neighborhood brings to school. Sometimes there are mint leaves floating in it, but he always picks them out, mostly because Mesud does and David wants to do the right thing; not everyone gets to hang out with older kids. He likes mint, though, and keeps the leaves in his pocket until he can walk home, chewing them. They taste green and make his fingers smell like toothpaste.

He's taken to introducing himself as "Dah-veed", which is how Mesud pronounces it. It sounds cooler. Dah-veed Barrington. David's mom still just calls him Davey, though.

They don't knock. They just kick in the door. David looks up from the model he's started of the Eiffel Tower- it's a little lumpy. He hasn't actually seen a picture of it, but he's sure his version will be cooler, anyway. It's got turrets.

The housing unit is small. There are no hallways, just the main room with bunks and the front door, where David and Mesud are, and the little kitchen, where Mesud's mother is standing at the stove, boiling something in a big pot. There's three men. Their faces are hidden behind visors and they have guns and uniforms. David's never seen them so close up before. They don't come to his neighborhood, often, unless someone calls for help.

One of them points a gun at Mesud. They ignore David.

"Put it down," another one yells, sighting his big gun at the kitchen. The man pointing his gun at Mesud laughs. The third man is also aiming at the kitchen. He shouts, too: "Put down the weapon!"

"Anlamıyorum!", she shouts back, holding both of her hands in the air. "Dur, anlamıyorum! Dur!"

David doesn't understand. She isn't holding anything except a wooden spoon.

"Stay where you are! Dur! Dur!" They're all laughing, now "Dur!"

"Mesud!" She's crying, but Mesud doesn't move from where he's pressed into the wall. His eyes are screwed shut. David should shut his eyes, too, he thinks.

"I said don't move," shouts one of the men, and then there's loud, _really_ loud popping noises. David covers his ears.

He watches her stagger backward, one hand reaching out behind to steady her. It lands on the hot stove. It has to hurt, but she doesn't scream. The spoon is on the floor. Then, she's on the floor, too. There's blood on the wall behind her, dark and ugly and not at all like how it looks on television.

One of the policemen looks at David, then, or he turns his head to David- the visors are beetle black and total. David can't see anything there but his own face, hands pressed over his ears. He watches his face stretch and curve in the visor as the man moves; he is powerless. David often feels powerless around adults, but there is no give in that carapace-piece, nothing behind it but the laugh. It shows him his reflection- how small, how weak he is, _hear no evil_. It _shows_ him.

The man who shot first turns back around to the front room, makes long easy strides to stand over Mesud. He pokes him in the chin with the gun- once, twice. Laughs.

"Tell your raghead brother we came by."

Mesud still doesn't say anything, doesn't open his eyes. _See no evil._

The men leave. David hears the door click shut behind them, and then the sound of boots on the stairs.

The pot boils over, and broth hisses on the range. The sharp smell of sumac and cumin fills the unit, making David's eyes water. He is afraid to go into the kitchen and turn off the stove. Her legs stick out from the doorway, shoes still on, like she's just lying down there on her back and taking a nap but David _knows_. He's afraid to go into the kitchen.

"Mesud," David whispers, trying not to look at the doorway, where the _thing_ is "Hey, Mesud."

Mesud still won't move or open his eyes.

Eventually the smoke alarm goes off. The fire department comes, then the police again, different ones this time. They take David home and put Mesud in a car that goes the other direction. They tell David's mother it was "gang related".

She believes them.

No one believes David. Children don't know anything.

* * *

 

Delta seals the memory behind him when he leaves, helps Wash visualize packing it into a locked box and placing it high up on a shelf.

_Would you like me to show this to York?_ Delta asks Wash, and gets an affirmative response. _I will do that, then._

'Can't you take it out with you?' Wash asks him, not entirely in words, but Delta's been in here often enough to understand 'I don't need it for anything. I'd rather not have it.'

He could, theoretically, delete it, which would be much the same in effect. But Delta has functional, if fragmented, layers of Smart AI programming that prevent him from violating robotics law. Also, he finds the idea distasteful, from a personal and an ethical standpoint.

_No, Wash,_ he says _I am afraid I cannot._

'Oh,' says Wash, or at least he sighs a little, feels shades of reluctance, disappointment, acceptance 'Okay.'

_Are you ready for me to return to York?_

That's an affirmative. Delta sinks back, unhooking himself from Wash's neural network as gently as possible, and prepares himself for the transfer, the stillness of digital coma, the few seconds of maddening _incompleteness_ that reminds him of the Sarcophagus and lasts for far, far longer than a mind like Wash's or York's can comprehend.

* * *

 

They end up ordering pizza for dinner. York goes to pick it up while North and Wash sit on the sofa bed, which smells like York. They stare at their reflections in the black of the television until North frowns and turns it on, mutes it. Wash would say something about how he _doesn't have PTSD_ , thanks, and _doesn't it get tiresome being so fucking perceptive all the time?_ but doesn't because he actually kind of likes that North cares as much as he does.

They sit in silence on York's pile of blankets, Wash sort of half curled up on his pillow. It's not an uncomfortable silence. North puts his bare feet up on the coffee table, closes his eyes.

"Tired?" Wash asks him.

North makes a humming noise, and nods. "The 24-hour shifts; it'll take some getting used to."

"And I thought the graveyard was bad," Wash says, genuinely sympathetic. North hums again.

The windows are open, from when North aired out the kitchen. Crickets chirp loudly. The trees are full of them. He's getting used to Earth, and all its strange living things.

York arrives bearing pizzas and bread sticks. He shoves North's feet off the table and puts down the boxes. North doesn't even complain, just goes right for the mushroom, pepper, and olive.

"Gross," says York, like he always does, and hands Wash a slice of Meat Lover's "Why are we watching silent hockey? Is that a thing?" He sits down on Wash's other side, elbowing him into the middle. Wash goes, with some grumbling- it's a little tight with all three of them on the sofa bed, mostly because of North's fucking enormous shoulders. York is shorter, but he's broad, too. Wash resigns himself to brushing elbows and arms with both of them for the duration of the evening, and all that implies for his heartrate and sanity.

York turns the sound back on. Cheering drowns out the crickets. Wash chews. He's comfortable, actually. Sandwiched between the two of them he feels... contained. Safe.

Eventually, when North reaches over his legs for another slice of veggie, Wash doesn't bother moving. York leans into him, almost resting his head on Wash's shoulder. Wash nudges him a bit.

"You took my pillow," York explains " _And_ I went to get the takeout. I'm tired, leave me alone."

"Don't whine," North says, and it turns into a yawn.

Soon they're all yawning.

"Damn it, North, what have you unleashed, it's like a disease," York whines, and yawns "I can't stop it." Wash yawns, too, self consciously. And again.

"Should go to bed," North says, and makes no effort to move whatsoever.

"You can't fall asleep here, this is my bed," York insists, and tries to wrestle his pillow back from Wash "Gimme." Wash clutches it tighter, instinctively. It smells like York and oh, he's really _very_ sleepy if thoughts like that one make sense. He lets go of the pillow. York bunches it up against the arm with a grumbling noise and wedges the right side of his face in.

Wash wants, very badly, to run his hand over the scars. They're smooth looking, and pale, not as rough as they used to be, not as much like a wound.

He must have stared for a moment too long, because North lays a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he says "Bed."

They move rather sluggishly up the stairs. Wash almost walks past his bedroom door, but North laughs a little and steers him in the right direction. When Wash puts his hand on the knob, North says, very clearly and lucidly, "Thank you."

Wash frowns at him.

"For letting us see your face," North says, and disappears into his room.

* * *

  
**Carolina.**

  
Carolina signs the papers just the way they tell her to, with an 'X'.

Her father doesn't call. She didn't really expect him to. Carolina learned when she was very young that it was best to have no expectations when it came to Leonard Church. It didn't always protect her from disappointment, but it sure made growing up in his house a lot easier. By the time she was nine she stopped looking for him in the crowd at karate tournaments and dance recitals. At thirteen, she taught herself how to take the bus downtown to the pharmacist and buy her own tampons. At sixteen, she moved out and studied furiously, trained until early morning in her dark studio apartment- math, physics, Sangheli, Muy Thai and Tai Chi. At eighteen, she enlisted.

And for the next five years, she thought about Leonard Church very little.

Carolina didn't know, when they recruited her for the project. No one told her. He hadn't called. He just appeared one evening, when she was working targets on the training room floor. She saw him standing in the viewing booth, high up on the wall, and finished her round without a single error. No expectations meant no surprises, either.

They didn't talk until a week later, when he showed up at morning roll call. Carolina stood at attention between Wyoming and North and got her orders.

This was the extent of their conversation:

"Understood, Agent?"

"Yes, Director."

That night, as she lay on her bunk with her eyes closed, slowly relaxing every muscle in her body, Carolina visualized walking into her mental registry, like her Sifu taught her. She unlocked the correct box and took out the file card, the one that had "Dad" crossed out and "Mr. Church" written below it. She crossed out "Mr. Church" and wrote "DIRECTOR" in bold black lines.

The night she signs the papers, she does the same thing, letting the tension out of her heels, her calves, the backs of her knees. Carolina unlocks the correct box, and takes out the file card, the cyan blue one. She can't even read the first name there, anymore. She had scribbled it out, blacked it out to fit "Agent Carolina" and "Sargent Church". There's a little smudge in the corner, where York's handwriting once read "Lina", but she wiped that one off as best she could a long time ago.

There's no more room on the card. Carolina turns it over. A blank blue block.

_I will fill it with whatever I see fit_ , she thinks, and carefully slides the card back into place.

Then she seals the box and goes back to breathing, her mind as blank and blue and calm as an undisturbed lake, as steady and timeless as stone.

* * *

  
Carolina shifts her duffel to her other shoulder and rings the doorbell. It feels odd to be wearing the standard grunt Army BDU, flat-top cap and all, but Command had insisted that she keep a low profile until she docked at New Cartage. The tactical vest itches; it's too small. Carolina adjusts the shoulder straps absently.

North answers the door, Theta floating a few inches above his left shoulder and wearing what looks like an apron.

_Allison?_ he says, and Carolina frowns.

"Excuse me?"

North shakes his head, as if to clear it. Theta vanishes, frilly apron and all. "Sorry. He just- you're here to see York?"

"I'm here to see all of you," Carolina says "I'm going away for a while."

North looks her up and down. "Yeah. Come on in, there's spaghetti happening."

"I can't stay long," Carolina sets the duffel down inside the vestibule anyway.

_York_ , says Delta, from the kitchen, and Carolina turns to watch as York lifts his head up from the mess he's made of the table _if the meatballs do not have reasonably equivalent surface area- oh, dear._

"Hey Delta," she says "It's been a while."

Delta flickers. _Oh. Agent Carolina. I apologize, I did not recognize you._

"I- I need to wash my hands," York gets up and flees to the bathroom.

"Give him a minute," North tells her "I think you gave Delta a scare."

"I gave _Delta_ a scare?" Carolina tries not to laugh "Well _that's_ a relief."

"I found another colinder, there's a whole box of kitchen shit in the attic-" Wash comes down the stairs, holding some kind of beaten silver bowl with legs and lots of holes in it. Carolina squints. It looks kind of like a flying saucer. "Oh," he says "hi. Where are you off to?"

"New Carthage, to start with. Experimental program," Carolina tells him, and watches as Wash sets the weird bowl down on the counter next to where North's cutting onions. It's all surreally domestic and kind of makes her want to throw up. Who the hell wants to waste time making their own food?

Her team, apparently- the best of the best. Trained the best, equipped the best, and what has it got them? Spaghetti.

"Last chance, Wash," Carolina says "I can get you in. There's new suits."

She can see him thinking about it. But no, Wash is, as always, determined to make bad decisions and see them through to the end.

"Thanks," he says, "but I'm okay."

"You work at a _gas station_ ," Carolina reminds him, but Wash just shrugs.

York comes back into the kitchen, looking much more put together. "Give it a rest, Lina."

Carolina gives him a once over, like she hasn't in a long time; since before he moved out, really. He's gained some weight; not much, and it suits him. He's softer around the face. He looks- comfortable. Content.

"I came to say goodbye," she says, and watches as York's face loses that softness immediately.

"Thought you didn't believe in goodbyes."

She doesn't have anything to say to that- not anything she _can_ say, anyway. Nothing he's authorized to hear.

There's some scuffling by the stove, the click of the burner turning off. When Carolina looks over, North is making himself scarce by herding Wash back up the stairs ("Show me what else is up there, alright? I've been wondering what happened to the microplane-" "A microplane? The box isn't _that_ big-" "It's not actually a- oh, nevermind.").

"I hear you're working for Vestol, now."

York sinks back down into the chair, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. "No small talk, Lina, you're terrible at it. You gonna go get yourself killed, or what?"

"It's a job," she tells him, and then, because she can finally say it out loud "I don't need your blessing."

York smiles, and it's genuine, as far as she can tell. "Yeah. You never did, you know? But for a little while there, you wanted it, and I was the luckiest man alive."

"You were _miserable_ ," she reminds him, and gives in, pulls out another chair and sits down " _I_ was miserable. Just, neither of us had anything to compare it to."

"This- whatever it is, I know you can't tell me-" he runs a hand through his hair, that old nervous gesture "It'll make you happy?"

And here was the _other_ thing that had always bothered her. "It's not just about being happy, York. There's other things in life. Important things."

"'Big deals', yeah, I get it." It doesn't sound bitter, really, which is a bit of a relief "but level with me, okay? It'll make you happy?"

"I'm excited," she admits "I'll have a team. We'll have a job. We'll do it, well."

"Exceptionally well, no doubt," he says, and grins "Okay, I get it. But it's goodbye, huh? For real?"

"For real," Carolina confirms, and in a rare moment of sentimentality, stands up, drawing him up by the hand into a hug.

York buries his face in her neck, clings tightly to her around the bulky tactical vest.

"Don't cry, you big baby," she tells him, and kisses him lightly on the temple.

He rasps a laugh into her starched regulation collar. "Not crying. But you do have to stay for dinner, if you're going to vanish off the face of the Earth tomorrow."

It's a little more than that, but she supposes it doesn't really matter. "Okay, fine. I'll eat your terrible meatballs."

"Hey now," he pulls away, thumping her on the back in that platonic-masculine 'official moment-breaking' move "I've cooked for you before. It wasn't that bad."

It wasn't that bad, but Carolina's totally on board with bringing the emotional threat level back down to code yellow. "I didn't want to say anything. You were trying so hard at the whole military wife thing."

York winks at her. Wash and North come barrelling back down the stairs. Neither of them is holding a small aircraft, but North does have something in his hand that looks like it could be used as an advanced interrogation tool under the right circumstances.

"How can I help?" Carolina asks, finally unstrapping the vest and setting over the back of the chair.

"You can grate the Parmesan," North tells her, and okay, maybe she can see some of the appeal in this, as an exercise.

Still a waste of time, though.

* * *

  
It's less of a surprise than it should be, when the Counselor meets her on the bridge of the _Euthydemus_. They're traveling in the retinue of the _Evans Gambit_ , a recently re-outfitted carrier bound for New Carthage. The _Euthydemus_ is small, as frigates go, and Carolina expects they won't even bother docking, will just slingshot off the planet's gravitational field and head right for Talitsa. If the Counselor's on board, that means this frigate is traveling cold- no slipspace to leave a stream or a log register, minimal fuel expenditure. Whatever the ship is carrying, LETHE doesn't want the natives on Talitsa to know they're coming.

The Counselor looks different in his deep green undersuit, less formal than Carolina remembers but just as intimidating. He's grown a beard, and both his eyes are fully clouded over now with milky corneal scarring; spaceblind, the process she noticed once in the light of the AI classroom displays finally completed. But his voice, that damn voice, is still the same.

He doesn't call her Agent Carolina. That's not her name, anymore. She doesn't have anything to replace it with, not yet. But she will.

"The Project has set aside a RECON variant for you," the Counselor says, and there's a faint glow of orange light by his neck that explains how it is he can walk without a hand running along the wall, how he can focus unerringly on her face when she's still and quiet as stone "But given your _unique_ qualifications, I have petitioned our contractor to provide you access to their most recent models."

He extends a tablet. Carolina takes it, swipes down with her thumb. There's file upon file of schematics, test results, video and interactive mapping.

"I particularly recommend the LOCUS and WETWORK variants," the Counselor tells her, and with a twitch of his hand (a lick of orange flame) Carolina is presented with a pair of suits in flawless hologram, one with a visor-less helmet reminiscent of a human skull, and the other a round shell split down the center like a medieval arrow-slit. They're alien-looking, featureless and frightening. _Blind_ , she thinks, but by now she's begun to figure it out, watching the Counselor in that undersuit, with the nodes that reach slickly up his neck to mold around his skull, glowing orange.

Carolina runs a finger along the sleek lines of the WETWORK unit, and the Counselor smiles without teeth.

"As I thought. Knight to D-6," he says, and Carolina looks up, sharply, as the hologram blinks out and the tablet beeps. _User accepted_ , it reads now, in plain white on black _Welcome, Operative_.

Carolina knows better than to ask questions. She holds the tablet out to the Counselor, but he shakes his head.

"It's yours now. Enjoy the rest of the flight. Once we dock, there is much work to be done."

Carolina just nods "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed," he tells her, and turns back to the great black sea expanding endlessly in front of them.

Carolina tucks the tablet into her pocket, and starts down the hall. She might as well get some sleep.

She thinks she hears the Counselor say, softly "Goodbye, Agent Carolina," but he's too late on that front. She's already said goodbye to everyone who mattered.

* * *

  
When she wakes up, she's disoriented for a moment. The room is familiar- bunk, dresser, upright armor locker- but something about how it's arranged feels wrong.

She pulls off the thin blanket and sets bare feet on the floor. It's cold. Titanium. She's not naked, but she doesn't recognize the skin-tight clothing. It's a deep purple single piece, long sleeved and long legged and turtlenecked. She runs her hands over it, feels impossibly thin wires and electrodes set in along her skin.

She goes into the bathroom (wrong side of the room, the wrong _side_ -). There's a sink, a shower stall, a toilet. She reaches automatically for her waist, but there's no zipper on the undersuit, no seams. When she sits on the toilet, though, the fabric flows like water away from her legs and groin.

She finds herself looking in the mirror as she urinates. She has red hair and green eyes. She washes her hands.

There's a data tablet lying on top of the dresser, but when she turns it on there's just a black screen with a white poppy displayed on it and the words "Lethebridge Industries". She opens the top drawer, and then the ones below it. They're all empty.

The armor locker, then. It's exactly her height. She opens it.

A purple beetle's head stares back at her, cracked down the center by blazing orange.

_Good morning, Delta Six_ , it tells her.

"Good morning," says Delta Six.  


* * *

 

 

  
**York.**

York wakes up, but doesn't open his eyes immediately. He was having a nice dream. He wants to hold onto it as long as he can, but it's already unraveling, dimming and slipping away.

North and Wash have shifted around so that York's got his head on Wash's lap and his legs over North's. Someone- no, Wash, it has to be Wash- is touching his scarring, lightly. The volume on the TV has been turned down. He fell asleep at some point during the fourth quarter, but now it's sitcom sounds instead of football sounds.

North shifts under his legs. York opens his eyes and feels Wash jerk back, startled.

Wash looks down at him, limned in light from the ceiling. North has a hand around one of York's socked feet and is rubbing the heel absently. York feels deeply, _existentially_ , content, which isn't actually that unusual for late nights on the sofa with these two particular assholes. The ones he lives with. Bickers with. Eats dinner with. _Falls asleep on the sofa with_.

Oh.

"I am an _idiot_ ," York says.

"As thrilled as I am to hear you finally admit that-" North begins, but York cuts him off.

"No, shut up. I'm an idiot, and you two are even worse. At least I have an excuse."

"What is he talking about?" Wash stage whispers at North.

"I have no idea," North whispers back "just humor him. And don't make any sudden movements."

York looks back and forth between them for a moment, absolutely refusing to let Delta even _think_ about probabilities, and lands on Wash, because he's closer.

"Don't freak out," York says, and before he can remember how insane this is, he reaches up, cups a hand around Wash's neck, and pulls him down.

Should have thought more about the logistics of it; Wash's mouth is effectively sideways on York's, and even when York tilts his own head to get them a little better aligned, Wash's lips are a fucking no-fly zone. _Come on, man_ , York thinks, eyes closed and kissing him lightly, coaxing, _don't freak out on me_.

If Wash freaks out, York is going to freak out, and then the domino effect might even extend to North, and god knows what kind of crater _that_ would leave in Buffalo Grove. The UNSC would have to set up an exclusion zone. York has never seen North flip his shit and hopes he never will, because he's got to have nigh on three decades of shouting stored up in there.

"York," North shifts again "Take it easy." The hand on York's foot slides up his leg to cup his calf muscle. North squeezes a little. "Let go of his neck."

Oh, right. York lets go of Wash's neck. To his surprise, Wash lingers for a moment, and when York opens his eyes Wash just looks confused and worried- not ideal, but better than Wash looking like he's gonna punch York in the face or jump out the window or something.

York lifts his head up to check on North. To anyone else North might look perfectly calm, but York's gotten real good at picking up on his tells, where tension collects in his face, and he'd bet serious money that North's heartrate is off the charts right now.

"You gonna help me out with this, or what?" York asks "Come on, guys, don't leave me hangin', here." A little chill runs up from his fingers through his arms, collects in the back of his neck. He was so _sure_ , for a second there- did he miscalculate?

"North?" Wash is tense under York's shoulders, but when York looks back up at him Wash is staring at North and licking his lips, and woah, yeah, _York_ at least is into it.

"Just so we're clear," North says, "This has nothing to do with Carolina?"

York glares at him, because North knows him better than that, and he's getting impatient to find out whether he just made a good call or ruined his fucking life. "I'm over Carolina, been having sex dreams about you guys for _ages_ , I don't wanna _choose_ , and Wash if you could please say something or punch me or whatever you're gonna do that would be great-"

"Sex dreams- you fucking idiot," Wash says, and York doesn't get a chance to reply because North has leaned down over him with his elbows on the arm-rest and York's mouth is occupied. He groans with relief, and reaches up to run fingers over North's short hair. North knows what he's doing, which doesn't really surprise York even though he's pretty sure North hasn't dated anyone the entire time York's known him.

York tilts his head back, lets North kiss him deeper, his tongue running firmly along York's. He can feel Wash against his cheek, hard through the sweatpants. It makes York shudder. North draws back, sucking on York's lower lip as he goes.

"Oh, fuck," York says, and turns into Wash's lap, mouthing at him, surprised at himself, how frantic he feels. Wash's hips jerk. York bites at the drawstrings of the sweats.

Wash's hands come down, push him away. York goes, reluctantly. Wash's thumb runs over his scar again, and York shivers, closing his eyes.

Wash kisses him, lightly, just a brush of lips. Hesitant. For some reason that gets York just as hot as the practiced tongue-fucking North just gave him.

"Upstairs, I think," North says, and just gets right up, spilling York's legs onto the floor. York flails an arm out and catches himself on the coffee table to keep from rolling off of Wash, too.

Wash actually laughs at him, the little bastard.

"You'll pay for that," York tells North, who's standing at the foot of the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest, looking smug.

"I sure hope so," North says, and woah, that got Wash moving. The two of them scramble upright and follow North up the stairs.

* * *

  
He's going to wake up any moment now, he thinks, but no, there's an _extremely_ unwelcome pulse from Delta that doesn't come with any words but feels like _I told you so._

_I **will** pull you,_ he thinks at Delta, as clearly as he can under the circumstances _A little privacy, please_. Delta pings once, rather smugly, and then York feels him pull up and back, zipping along neural connections to settle in the angular gyrus of the parietal lobe. Delta's been working on something back there with the seventh Vestol holo-lock involving palindromes and a random number generator.

York leaves him to it- it's not like he's capable of much higher function right now, anyway, not when he's pushing Wash down on top of North's legs on the bed, running his hands over Wash's bare back while Wash wriggles his arms free of his shirt to tug York's belt out of the loops. York scratches a little, experimentally, and Wash hooks a leg behind York's knees, presses his forehead into York's chest and _whines_.

One of York's hands hits the sheets and slides, bumping warmly up against North's calf. Wash yanks York's jeans down to mid-thigh and goes straight for his dick because York's taken to going commando recently. It's paying off now. He clutches at the back of Wash's neck with his other hand, drags nails over the soft blond hair at his nape as Wash's head slides down over his shirt.

"Wait," North gasps, pushing himself up on the bed and causing Wash to lose his balance and tumble to the side in the process "we need condoms."

York and Wash fix him with identical expressions of mulishness and exasperation, but North is, of course, unmoved.

"We'll all go get tested this weekend," he says, firmly "Until then, condoms."

"Christ," York growls, and slams out the door and down the stairs, pantsless. He doesn't really care if he runs into South on the way, at this point. She deserves it.

He'd dumped the contents of his bedside table into a cardboard box along with his bathroom stuff and whatever was in the 'junk drawer' in the kitchen (all the junk being York's, of course). He hadn't gotten around to unpacking it, had just bought new shampoo and hair gel and moved the 'random batteries and rubber bands and free pens' aspect of his life into Wash's junk drawer. Now he slits the packing tape with his thumbnail and roots around in the box. It smells like soap. There's a half-empty bottle of lube and a couple boxes of condoms. York pulls out a few strips (fuck yeah optimism), makes to stuff them in his pocket, remembers he doesn't _have_ pockets, and sticks them between his teeth while he hurriedly reseals the box.

York pounds back up the stairs, barefoot, half-certain that the moment he left North's room Wash threw a shit-fit and put all his clothes back on.

He needn't have worried. North and Wash are standing by the side of the bed, fully nude, kissing. North, ever the gentleman despite literally knocking dicks with the guy, has his hands above the waist, curled lightly around Wash's shoulders. Wash's arm creeps hesitantly around North's lower back. The scar on Wash's left bicep is still pink and healing. York has a flash of deja-vu, but can't place it.

They pull apart when York closes the door behind him, Wash stepping back and hitting the bed a little awkwardly. The blush has traveled all the way down his neck to his chest. North looks over at York. There's a flash of uncertainty there, and York has to tamp down on his own panicky inner monologue- _what am I doing, this is crazy, **three** of us? i should leave and let them_ \- because both of them are looking at him now, and York can be dense but he's not so dense he doesn't know lust when he sees it. He tosses the lube and condoms onto the bed, then steps forward to kiss North, lightly.

North keeps his eyes open, so York does, too, taking the dare because he can't help himself, really. When North leans back, breaking the kiss, the uncertainty has gone from his face. Instead it's the 'I have a plan about what's best for you' face, and York is a little wary despite himself because he doesn't always like those plans even if yeah, in the long run, they usually do him some good.

But still. "This is the moment I regret ever tormenting you with details about my kinky sex life, isn't it?" York should have known this day would come: all his chickens (and strap-ons), come home to roost.

"Wash," North says with that calculating expression, but there's amusement creeping in now, "get on the bed."

Out of the corner of his eye, York sees Wash do just that, scrambling back on his hands like a crab, bunching up the sheets.

North herds York onto the bed, too, sort of boxing York in with his height as he strips off York's shirt and lets it fall to the floor. York considers not playing along, just to show North he can't push him around, but he kind of _wants_ to be on the bed; that's where Wash is. York can sense the anxiety radiating off of him; he crawls over to Wash, where he's propped himself up against the headboard.

"C'mere, rookie," York says, and to his surprise Wash just _grabs_ him, hands clenching in York's hair and mouth pressing York's open, hard and desperate. He's unpracticed, all teeth and tongue and in a rush. York tries to shift closer without losing too much hair in the process, slipping a hand onto Wash's thigh and gentling the kiss a bit, teaching by example- _this_ , he's good at. It takes Wash a minute to calm down, but when he finally stops huffing breath out his nose onto York's face and his leg relaxes a little, York feels a surge of accomplishment.

"York," North runs a hand up York's spine, broad and warm. The bed dips behind him. "Wash and I had a little talk while you were downstairs."

Wash's hands tense in York's hair, but let go when he winces. Wash keeps kissing him, probably so he doesn't have to look York in the eye. Or maybe York's just that good with his mouth, who knows? He's never had any complaints, and this is one thing that's the same as with women.

The hand reaches his neck, and a thumb circles his C7 vertebra through the skin. York slips his mouth away from Wash's and sucks lightly on his neck. Wash is so pale under the freckles, and York knows he bruises easily. He's a little surprised at himself, at the tenderness that surges in his chest when he presses his lips to the smooth line of Wash's clavicle. York eases them both down onto their sides, slides one leg along Wash's. It's not smooth, but it's muscular and firm and York feels the power contained there, the potential in Wash's tense thigh and calf. It's not what he's used to, but it's _hot_.

North's hand slides along his shoulder and down the length of his arm, closing gently around his wrist. York drags himself away from Wash's chest to look up at him. North smiles.

"Wash is new at this, and I want him to have a nice time. I know you haven't done this before, either. But I was thinking that there's something I _know_ you enjoy."

York finally gets a clue, in that it hits him over the head going something like 200 miles an hour and leaves very interesting images in its wake. _Oh_. "Oh," he says, and swallows. "Yeah, uh. That's. That's a good plan. I like this plan."

"Can you two _please_ share with the rest of the class?" Wash groans, covering his face with his hands. York rolls over to face North fully, because if he looks at Wash right now he's going to lose his nerve.

"Wash," North says, with the tiniest hint of amusement, "Would you like to fuck York?"

"Shit, seriously? H-How do I-? I've never- I mean, with girls, yeah, but not-" York hears Wash shift behind him, hands sliding over the sheets, searching for the condoms. He's got to be beet red.

North settles down alongside York and reaches over him, propped up on his other arm. There's the sound of a cap opening and closing. York swallows, and North locks gazes with him for a moment, checking in. York gives him a little grin in return, but he's pretty sure it's the sort of manic, toothy 'we're probably all going to die, but I'm ready if you are' grin he got so used to flashing during the Project. North matches it, though, like he always does, _got your six_ and York swears his heart skips.

"Guys?" Wash looms over the both of them, and yeah, he's _very_ red "I am serious, I have no fucking idea-."

"It's okay," North rumbles, and his voice has gone very, very deep all of a sudden, and a firm hand runs deliberately over York's ass, trailing wetness "I'll open him up for you."

York feels himself blush, which _never_ happens to him but fuck, _North_ , who knew? He swallows hard, trying to retain some dignity even though his head is spinning and one of North's long, slick fingers is pressing up into him, oh _christ_.

"I'm not a fucking wine bottle, you prick," he grumbles, but North only smiles, and reaches up with his free hand to scrape the nail of his thumb along the shell of York's ear, making his entire body break out in goosebumps.

"And yet," North's whispering into his ear, breath hot "you're so warm and sweet inside."

Okay, that's just cheesy. North is still a dork, balance restored. York barks out a laugh, but it turns into a gasp when the finger probes deeper and he can feel North's knuckles pressing against him.

There's the sound of tearing foil, and Wash shifts again. York can't tell if it's nervous motion or eager motion, or if Wash is just having trouble figuring out which way to roll it on.

"You know where that goes, right?" York asks, just to lighten the mood and because he can't help himself, Wash is so easy "It's not a balloon."

"Shut the fuck up," Wash says, and there's a crinkle of latex "North, are you sure you don't-"

"Yes. I'll get my turn with him; no offense, but I don't think this is going to take very long." North slides a second finger in and sets to slowly working York open, spreading the fingers apart, scissoring them, twisting and pumping. York swallows a whine. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's been a few months since he did this last, and Carolina had smaller hands. He butts his head into North's chest, feeling just on the cusp of overwhelmed.

"You still okay?" North asks him in his regular voice.

York nods, doesn't mention the part where he's clearly lost his fucking mind, because it looks like North has, too. And Wash. There's three complete lunatics in the room and York can't help it, he's an enabler, he's not supposed to be the _sane_ one-

North's fingers crook in _just_ the right way and York loses his train of thought. His hands clench involuntarily in the pillow and he screws his eyes shut. He might have made a noise. It might have been embarrassing.

"Here, Wash," North says in that low voice, somewhere above York's head "Feel. You won't hurt him." The fingers leave, then come back with a third, shorter and from a weird angle. York kind of regrets sending Delta to time-out, he could use a distraction right about now.

"York?" that's Wash, right by his ear. York lifts his face out of the pillow, opens his good eye to see Wash's nervous, eager face blocking the ceiling light fixture "Can I?" That third finger presses in, stroking curiously.

"Please," York says, beyond embarrassment at this point and wow, is that his voice?

"Up," North says, sliding his fingers out and wiping them on the sheet as he sits up "Wash, sit against the headboard, please?" He looks down at York "More control for you, that way."

York appreciates the concern and finds he's liking this plan _very_ much, but North's also being weirdly bossy. Then it hits him. He sits up straight, shuffling back a little so he's next to Wash, leaning against the headboard.

"You _pervert_ ," York accuses, pointing for emphasis "You've _thought_ about this. Wash, buddy, we're being _stage-managed_ by this _voyeur_."

"I am not." North at least has the decency to blush a little, but it's hard to make out next to the full-body arousal flush he's got going on.

"You totally are," York says, laughing "How did I not know this about you? You like to _watch_."

"Makes sense to me," Wash's voice is small and hesitant "You're, um. You're a good looking guy, York."

York starts to say something about the 'horrible disfiguring facial scar, remember?' but North is looking at them both with a heated mix of lust and incredulity and for a moment York forces himself to be serious.

"Neither of you have any _idea_ , do you?" North traces a hand over York's chest, lets it travel as if magnetized to Wash's cheek, where grey eyes flutter nervously "You have no idea what you look like, right now." He leans in to kiss Wash, and York finds he can't look away. They're beautiful in an objective sense, and the kiss is slow and deep, hot to watch, but mostly it's because it's _Wash_ and _North_ and weirdly, York doesn't feel jealous.

He is getting impatient, though. "Come _on_ , Wash. Quit indulging his sick paraphilia."

North pulls back, then moves in again for one more quick kiss before disentangling himself from Wash. "You're one to talk."

York doesn't even bother with a retort. Wash looks a little dazed, propped up against the headboard there, and York takes that opportunity to climb into his lap.

Then he thinks for a second about North's sick paraphilia and turns himself around.

"The things I do for you," he tells North, and gasps a little when Wash's hand reaches under him, fumbling. Slick latex skids across his skin, and then there's pressure.

"Breathe," North reminds him, and York very intentionally lets out a breath, relaxes as much as he can under the circumstances (crazy, _three_ of them, absolutely _insane_ ), inhales. Exhales.

"Oh, fuck," Wash presses his sweaty forehead into York's back, grabs his hips too tightly. York focuses on the pain there, the ten sharp crescents where Wash's nails dig into his skin.

It's different than the strap-on. There's more give, and it's so hot inside him, even through the condom. And it's attached to a guy, but that guy is Wash so York tells himself it's okay. It certainly _feels_ okay. He presses down experimentally.

"Fuck, York-" Wash's hands scramble at his sides, trying to pull him down, or pull himself up, York doesn't know.

He presses harder, until he's right on Wash's lap. He sets his hands on his own thighs, propping himself up, pants. All the air has gone out of him and he feels like if Wash moves he's going to scream because it's too much, too much all at once, what are they _doing_ -

"Breathe," North says again, right by his ear. York breathes. North runs his hands up and down York's arms, soothing, steadying. "You're okay?"

York breathes. Nods. One of Wash's hands leaves his hip, smooths down his back. York can feel the tension in his thighs and stomach, but he doesn't need to in order to know how badly Wash wants to move. Open-mouthed kisses slide down his spine, one merging into another.

_Fuck it_ , York thinks, and rocks up and down before he can talk himself out of it.

Wash's hips jerk, and he wraps his arms around York's waist, pulling, holding- "York- _North_ , oh _fuck_ -"

York really does enjoy this, always has, and maybe that should have been a clue, but he likes sex in general and doesn't ascribe to the idea that liking specific sex acts makes you gay. No, the thing that makes this kind of gay isn't how good it feels, but how York's chest feels like it's been ripped open, blown apart by wild affection, and York's a guy who knows a little something about being blown apart. This could destroy him; he knew that going in, but now he knows that it's already happening, already in the process of destroying him. He just hopes there's something left to put him back together again after the fires burn out.

Warmth lapses over his front. York opens his eyes to see North's blue ones staring back at him. A broad hand wraps around him, firm and sure, jerks him to the rhythm he and Wash have managed to stagger awkwardly into.

"I- I-" he can't manage anything else like this, with each downward thrust onto Wash forcing the breath out of him and the cock inside him burning like a brand. He throws his arms around North's shoulders, clutches at him desperately, pants into his neck as North's hand works him.

"You should see his face," North gasps into his ear, biting it lightly "he can't get enough of you."

Behind him, Wash moans, long and low. Then North leans even further forward, and it's cut off. They're kissing, just above his head.

North's free hand trails down, behind his balls, to where Wash has stretched him wide. The press of his thumb there, and the half-formed thought it drops into York's head ( _both_ , i could- _both_ of them oh god) is so overwhelming that he comes without warning, spurting onto North's hand and chest. North guides him through it, sturdy and precise. York knows North's watching him, watching his face. He doesn't mind.

York falls forward, shaking, arms still looped around North's shoulders, and sags there for a moment before North gathers him up in a hug. Wash, practically vibrating with tension, stops thrusting into him, and York, annoyed, presses back down on him with the little energy he has left.

"Don't stop," he says, and immediately Wash's hands are at his waist again and Wash is pounding into his slack form, grunting softly with each thrust. York lets Wash rock him into North, over and over, closes his eyes and gives in to the over-stimulation, feels his legs twitch involuntarily. He's sleepy. He thinks about Wash, how underneath that hesitant exterior there's always been _this_ Wash, who's ashamed of his eagerness but takes what he wants _anyway_ , and isn't it strange, how York never noticed that what Wash wanted was-

"Fuck," he gasps, " _David_ -"

Wash growls, and slams up into him, coming hard.

York's drifted off before he slips out.

* * *

 

  
York fades back in, blinks blearily. Someone's tucked him under the covers- North, probably. He can't have slept for more than a few minutes. 

On the other side of the bed, North lies on his back, breathing heavily as Wash's head bobs up and down between his legs. North's hands keep reaching down as if to grab Wash's hair, and then retreating back upward to clench in a pillow, or lock behind North's head.

York drags himself over on his elbows and rests his cheek on North's stomach. Wash looks up at him, glaring, but York can't take him seriously with his mouth full like that and he bursts into laughter.

Wash pulls off, licks his very wet lips. "If you're going to make fun, you can leave."

"Oh, fiesty." York folds his arms under his chin, which is what finally makes North sit up on his elbows.

"Either help, or shut up," he grinds out, looking very un-North-like, but at this point he's probably worked himself up into a case of serious blue balls and York does have some sympathy for that. Still mostly his fault for being a dirty voyeur, though.

"I'm here to help," York says, in his best customer service voice, and turns back to Wash, kissing him lightly on the mouth. Ugh, latex breath.

"Then _start helping_." North grabs York's hair and shakes his head a little. York takes mercy on him and gestures for Wash to keep doing his thing. York's gonna be moral support until they get done with the condom thing, he thinks.

Wash doesn't seem to mind. His eyes flutter closed and his brow creases a little, concentrating. It doesn't look like a very complicated procedure, but it's not like York would know. He'll find out later. York is very, very determined that later is going to happen.

To that end, he starts running his mouth.

"So, Wash," he says, settling down on his arms on top of North's stomach, making himself comfortable " _Were_ you thinking about North in the shower that morning?"  
Wash pulls off North with a soft popping noise, and North hisses. "What? No!"

York cups the back of Wash's head and pushes him back down "Uh-uh. Don't leave North hangin', he's had a long night. Just blink once for yes, two for no."

"York," North grits out, jaw clenched "behave."

"Oh, come on," says York "it's _me_. Anyway, I wouldn't blame you. I have. He's got a great dick." York pauses "But then again, I guess you know that, huh?"

North tries to hit him, but his aim is off and York just shifts his shoulder out of the way.

"Thinking about North in the shower. Maybe that one should have tipped me off, you know? What can I say, I can be dense sometimes. Shut up, Delta," he adds, immediately.

_I did not say anything_ , Delta says.

"Well, keep doing that, then."

Wash pulls off again, so red York wonders if he's choking, for a second. "What the fuck! Has he been here the whole time? Make him go away!"

_Signing off_ , Delta says, much too quickly, and vanishes. Wash just glares at York in disbelief until North hooks a leg around his back and tugs. Wash gets back to work, but he's still very red.

" _Man_ , I am slow," York sighs "We could have been doing this years ago. Would have made off hours a lot more interesting. Why weren't you two going at it when I was gone, huh? Miss me too much?"

"Apparently I- _pined_ for you," North manages to sound sarcastic even with air hissing out between his teeth every other word "but- at the moment- I'm having trouble- remembering- why-"

"Don't lie, you know you love me," York says, and runs a hand along North's flank. The muscle twitches.

"I _do_ ," North gasps, and his hands are back in York's hair again, dragging him up "I _have_ , you and David- _both_ of you, I do-"

It isn't a proper kiss- North's too worked up, he just pants into York's mouth, but York kisses his cheek, his chin, his upper lip, suddenly feeling serious and sad and ecstatic all at once. Why had he been so afraid of this? Why hadn't he-

When North finally comes, his whole body jerks under York's chest and hands and mouth, and he lets go of York's hair, hands sliding along the sheets, searching for Wash. York feels the bed dip when Wash crawls up and settles next to them, one hand clasped in North's, their fingers laced. North presses those hands into York's shoulder, weakly. York curls his own open hand around them, rubbing his thumb over Wash's.

"Okay?" Wash mumbles, kissing North's shoulder.

North hums. York, eyes closed, can feel the vibration under his cheek. He presses slack lips to North's chest, breathes in the scent of sex and sweat and skin. It's different from how North used to smell- wood smoke and fabric softener instead of gunpowder and neoprene. Not war smells. Home smells.

York's hands clench; one in the sheets and the other around North's and Wash's. He's drifting towards sleep again, his thinking muddled and inarticulate. _I'll hold this_ , he whispers to Delta, who makes no reply, _I'll keep it. I'll **stay** here, don't let me_ -

"York?" York opens his eyes to see Wash staring at him. He makes an inquisitive noise in response.

"Don't freak out," Wash says, and grins.

York laughs, a little shakily, huffing breath over North's collarbone "Too tired to freak out. Check with me tomorrow."

North hums again, reaching over Wash to drag the blanket over all three of them as far as he can without disturbing York. It's much too small, like the rest of the bed, and York ends up with the fabric barely covering his waist and his feet hanging off the end.

North draws the tangle of their hands up to his chin and runs his lips over York's knuckles. "Go to sleep," he says, and York does, just as Wash curls into North's side and hikes a leg over the both of them.

York dreams he's standing on the beach. The sky is beautiful, deep autumn grey with motionless clouds that swallow up the white birds flying in intricate geometric formations.

Cold, shallow water lapses back and forth over his bare feet. In the wet sand York's reflection glistens and fades, glistens and fades. His left eye is pure sky blue, like a robin's egg or a marble or the globe of a world covered wholly by seas.

There's smoke coming up from behind the dunes, and voices. A dog barks, and there's a spray of purple fireworks. York shoulders his pack and walks forward, smiling.

* * *

 

  
**South**

It's Friday night. South's usually well into her cups by now, but lately instead of hitting the bar on weekends, she rides. She fills up the tank and switches out her tires and just rides straight up along Lake Michigan, past Waukegan, through Milwaukee, heading north until there's nothing on her left but the sun setting behind white geodesic bioshelters housing corn and soy. She hits the Sturgeon Bay Canal just as it gets too dark to go on- it doesn't matter, the drawbridge is up anyway. She gets a cup of bad coffee and takes a piss at the nearest recharge station, then sits on the dock with her Lady and watches the freighters and pleasure cruisers slip by into the night.

She keeps thinking about Connie, her face red from shouting, pointing those bloody fingers at her like a gun. Connie, taking a drag from right out of South's hand, her lips brushing skin and leather and paper. Connie, rolling fire in her mouth, blowing slow smoke.

Connie, shouting, "Don't call me."

South hasn't called her. It's probably the first time South's ever not done something just because someone told her not to. It's harder than it should be, which is why she's not drinking right now.

She knows she'll slip up, eventually. She always does. But it won't be tonight.

South crumples the paper coffee cup into a ball and shoves it in her pocket. Time to drive home and kill some more time with her hands occupied far away from her phone.

* * *

  
South gets back around 4 a.m. to find the house empty. There's unwashed dishes in the sink and the T.V. is on in the living room, playing to no one on the sofa. She turns it off.

Weird. At least it means no one can bitch when she takes a nice, long shower. South drags herself up the stairs and beelines for the bathroom.

On the way, she notices that Wash's door is open. She sticks her head in. Nada.

North's door, though- _that's_ closed. So he's gotta be home. North leaving the T.V. on and dishes in the sink? "Say it isn't so," South mutters, and opens the door.

Whatever she was expecting, it isn't what she gets.

"No fuckin' way," South breathes, and then she can't breathe, because she's laughing too hard. Wash sits up immediately, rubbing at his eyes, and stares at her in horror.

"Oh man," South says "This is _too_ good."

"Shut up," Wash hisses, and tries to pull the blanket up over himself reflexively, but that just means he's baring York's ass now, and South is fucking doubled over with laughter "This is _your_ fault, anyway, you colossal bitch-"

"I underestimated you, Wash," she chokes out, clutching at her side " _Both_ of them? And they look wrecked, pussy game _too strong_ , huh?"

"For your information-" there's just enough light enough coming in from the hall that South can see him flush all the way down his chest, but then North's sitting up and she has to avert her eyes because _UGH_ -

"Go _away_ , South," he says, and York kind of flops off of him onto the bed, completely out of it.

"And _you_ -" South points at her brother with the hand that isn't covering her eyes "'Not everything's about sex, South', 'leave it alone, South', 'we're just _friends_ , киска'-"

"South," North says, very calmly "if you don't leave right now, you're going to witness _such things_ -"

"Ugh, fine, okay," she backs out of the room, hand still over her eyes. There will be plenty of time later to tease him about it. This is a fucking gold mine of blackmail material; between this and the rabbit thing she's already set for life.

"Close the door," Wash shouts at her.

"Too bad, can't see, will go blind!" South staggers down the hall, bursting into laughter again when she hears a heavy thump behind her and York shouting.

"Ow! What the fuck-" "Shit, sorry dude-" "How hard is it to not throw me on the floor-" "I _said_ I was sorry-" "I'm sore enough _already_ -"

Fucking.

Goldmine.

* * *

  
She's not in a laughing mood at ten a.m. the next morning, though, when they're all downstairs drinking coffee and talking quietly over their cereal.

South had a dream about Connie. That she shot her, by accident. CT lay there on the floor of the garage in her suit and South held her breath, waiting for the brown metal to disappear, for the hologram to fuzz and crackle and flicker out like it should, it _should_ , because Connie's standing next to her, isn't she, in civvies, so the suit has to be, it _has_ to be-

Blood ran out from under the helmet and sank into the concrete, joining all the other stains. South dropped the SMG. Next to her, Connie, the _real_ Connie, squatted down to pick it up. Blood stained her hat, ran down the side of her face.

"I didn't mean to," South whispered, reaching for her "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Connie crackled, and phased out. South woke up sweating so badly she needed a shower. There wasn't any hot water, but even staring right at the three reasons for that, she can't find the energy to complain.

"Mornin'," York says, and scratches absently at his scarring. He's leaning up against the counter with a giant mug. Wash's cereal is apparently enthralling, because he hasn't looked up from his bowl since South came in. North slings an arm over the back of his chair and turns to smile at her. He looks _very_ pleased with himself.

South ignores him and pours herself a cup of coffee. The one good thing about having York around on a permanent basis is that the coffee around here has improved dramatically.

"Okay," says North "What's wrong?"

South stops dumping sugar into her mug for a moment to raise an eyebrow at him "What, you _want_ my running commentary on your weird-ass morning after? York's not sitting down, what a surprise."

York chokes on his coffee. Wash manages to gulp orange juice while still staring directly at his corn flakes.

North frowns at her. "киска-"

"No, really, I get it. You're all sickeningly in love and I get the sofa back. It's great. Mazel-fucking-tov." South chugs enough coffee to wake herself up and chucks the mug into the sink with the rest. There's the sound of cracking porcelain, and coffee spatters up onto the counter, black on white. She stares at it, feeling nauseous.

"Damn," says York "What crawled up _your_ ass?"

"York," North says, "Wash. Why don't you two go-"

"Somewhere else," Wash finishes, and stands up "Good idea. Come on."

York just shrugs, and follows him up the stairs, coffee in hand.

South slams her fist onto the counter. The dish rack jumps. She doesn't want to look at North. She's too angry. He doesn't say anything, though, so she just looks down at her hand. It clenches, unclenches, closes, opens-

"You always get what you want," she says, finally.

"I don't," North says from the table "And this isn't about me."

South barks a laugh, because it's better than crying, and she feels stupidly close to crying. "I really fucked up, Брат."

"Yeah?" There's the sound of the chair sliding back, and North pulls her into a hug. South lets him. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really," she says, and rests her chin on his crossed arms.

He hums into her hair. "Anything to do with why you're gone driving at all hours? You don't get enough sleep. It's dangerous."

South snorts. " _This_ from the guy who runs into burning buildings for a living?"

"Fair enough," North says, and gives her a brief squeeze before backing off. He reaches past her for the sponge and wipes coffee off the counter.

"I'm trying- trying to be patient," South tells him. That's her plan, anyway. Seems like it worked out for North okay.

"Patient," he repeats "that's... a new look for you."

South elbows him lightly, and sighs. "I said _trying_. I didn't say _succeeding_."

North smiles. "Bet you can't make it through December," he says.

Oh, he knows her _so_ well.

"You're on," South tells him.

Then, "Thanks."

North claps her on the back. "Any time, sis."

* * *

  
"Woah, who's reading _this_?" South, helmet tucked under one arm and still in her mud-spattered ATV jersey, hefts the hardback in one gloved hand and waggles it at North. The cover reads: _Nonlinear Continuum Mechanics and Large Inelastic Deformations_.

"That's Maine's stuff," North replies from the counter, chopping vegetables while Theta casts light grids on the carrots demarcating perfect one-inch segments "put it down, you'll lose his place."

South snorts. "Yeah, right. Nice try, Брат. Hey Dee, how'd you get York to read books for you?"

_The book is neither mine, nor York's_ , says Delta.

Theta skates over through the air and pops an ollie, reflected in the glossy hardcover. _Maine's really smart,_ he says, _he's teaching me Gauge theory._

"No shit." York swipes a cube of carrot from the cutting board and North hip-checks him in feigned annoyance. "Guy's goin' to school to be a rocket scientist."

"Don't cuss in front of Theta," North says automatically "That's a quarter for the jar."

"No way, man," York pops the carrot into his mouth and crunches "'Fuck''s a quarter, 'shit''s only a dime."

_You now owe North forty-five cents_ , says Delta.

"Traitor," York mutters, and digs in his pockets for change.

"We _are_ talking about the same Maine, right?" asks South, paging through a section on "Tension of an Incompressible Beam" and yeah, those kind of _do_ look like Maine's chicken scratches in the margin "Big guy, kind of reminds you of Lennie in that Steinbeck novel?"

_While Maine does own a rabbit_ , supplies Delta _his I.Q. likely exceeds that of the character you describe by seventy or eighty points._

"He's also much meaner," Wash says drily from behind her, and tries to grab the book.

South just grins and holds it up over his head. "Down, boy," she teases "I promise I won't get your boyfriend's nerd porn dirty. What's the Lamé Problem? Sounds _lame_."

_That's not as clever as you likely think it is_ , Delta's opinion algorithms clearly show that he's been spending too much time around North. The last thing South needs is _two_ sarcastic killjoys criticizing her every move.

"He's not my boyfriend," Wash says, standing on his toes.

"Yeah man, two's the limit on boyfriends around here. Don't get any ideas," York calls from the sofa.

"Put the book down, South." Speak of the devil. North scrapes the carrots into the pot and starts in on the peppers "And go shower and change, you're tracking mud everywhere."

South 'pffts' at him and, in a surge of inspiration, reaches up and sets the hardback on top of one of the unmoving ceiling fan blades. Wash gives her a look of disbelief. She grins toothily at him, and heads off down the hall towards her room, stripping layers off as she goes.

York whistles at her, and she gives him the finger.

"Don't leave your dirty clothes on the floor," North shouts after her, "You're not the only person who lives here!"

"Don't I know it," South grumbles, but she's smiling despite herself.

* * *

  
Connie calls her that night, while South's sitting on the couch in front of the television with York and Wash, watching grifball and drinking shitty beer. She has to check the screen twice to make sure she didn't read it wrong, but no, it says 'CT' and that's her number. South puts the beer down on the table and goes to lock herself in the bathroom. This has the potential to suck.

"You rang?" she answers, staring at herself in the mirror and actually feeling nervous.

"Hi," says Connie, real quiet.

"Hi yourself." South doesn't know what else to say. It's been months? I haven't slept with anyone? I didn't call, see, you can trust me?

"Are you-" Connie clears her throat "Are you busy, tomorrow afternoon?"

South has a race. "Nope."

"Really," says Connie, sounding just the tiniest bit amused "Because I hear there's some dirt-bike tourney out at Antioch."

"Oh, right," says South, "That. I, uh. I might go to that. But I might not. If something else came up."

"I'd like to go," Connie tells her "If that's alright with you."

"Don't need my permission," South says, automatically, then thinks _stupid, **stupid** -_

"I'd like to go _with you_ ," there's a laugh through the phone that makes South's throat close up and her hands tingle "Genius."

"Sweet," South swallows. Her reflection looks terrified. She should have brought the beer in here with her, that would give her something to do with her hands. "How, um. How have you been?"

"I've been fine, you?"

_Oh come on, Connie, help me out, here_. "Fuckin' stellar."

"How is everyone?"

"Gay," South says, and sits down on the closed toilet seat "Apparently."

"So I've heard," there's a rustle of fabric "Relax, South. I don't bite. Unlike some people."

South's startled into a laugh. "Okay, okay. I'm _really_ sorry about that, I'm sorry about that entire fucking night, I was a dick."

"I know," a pause "And I'm sorry it took me so long to call. I got caught up with work."

"Oh," says South "Spy stuff?"

"Top Secret," Connie says, wryly "Very classified. Matter of planetary security."

South smiles. "Gotta get those spooks their MREs on time, huh?"

"Something like that," Connie says "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you something."

"Shoot," South settles her elbows on her knees and tucks the phone into her shoulder.

"Your tattoo. What's with the snake and the rat?"

South laughs. "It's a mongoose. You know, like the _Jungle Book_?"

"It's a what?"

"Man, Spacers are so weird," South opens the bathroom door and sticks her head out "Hey, Wash! You ever read the _Jungle Book_?"

"What is that, some kind of weird euphemism?" Wash shouts back at her from over the couch, where York has taken over South's spot and sprawled his legs over Wash's "Keep it to yourself!"

South shrugs, then remembers Connie can't see her. "There's a cartoon. We'll watch it."

"You're very strange," Connie tells her.

"Wait, what could that _possibly_ be a euphemism for?" York pokes at Wash, grinning "You've got some weird shit going on in that head of yours, Rookie. Hey North, what comes to mind when you hear the phrase 'Read the _Jungle Book_ '?"

"Quit shouting," North walks in from the kitchen, holding the stupid fucking rabbit "Maine's trying to study."

"Shouldn't have come here, then-" York cuts himself off as there's a blare of applause from the television "Aw, fuck, what is Holdt _doing_ \- don't hog the ball, idiot, he's _wide open_ -"

"It's strange around here," South says, finally "You'll like it."  
  


 


End file.
